Weathering the Storm
by rosiesbar
Summary: Part 15 of 'In All Kinds of Weather'. Trapper's conduct continues to spiral downward. His drinking is getting out of control, and he crosses a line that Hawkeye can't bring himself to forgive. As their relationship hits rock bottom, their lives are further complicated by interference from outside influences, leaving them quite literally picking up the pieces.
1. The Break

**_Author's note:_** _As many readers may have noticed, this fic has been taking a dark turn and, as such, this story will contain violence, alcholism, homophobia, and other content which readers may find distressing or triggering. For more information, feel free to message me via PM._

* * *

 **Boston, August 1960**

Trapper was in a lousy mood by the time he returned from work. The factory had been warm and claustrophobic, and the air humid and unpleasantly close. Sweat prickled his skin under his grimy, company-issue overalls.

He fumbled with the key to their building that housed their current apartment and stared glumly at his hands: his nails were grubby and split, his skin blistered from hauling a broom across the length and breadth of the factory floor, and sore from the harsh cleaning chemicals. He shuddered. He'd had beautiful hands once. Surgeon's hands.

Sighing, he pushed the door open.

The hallway in this place was always cold, and on days like this it was a relief. The building was large and old, sandwiched between others of a similar age, and the heat rarely permeated the thick stone walls. In the winter it was an ice box, but it made the summer almost bearable. The interior looked like it had been almost _grand_ once, with high ceilings and ornate railings, but now the mosaic flooring was riddled with cracks, and dirt gathered around the edges of the lobby. Even the air seemed to have a perpetual grubby feel to it.

But this was home. Trapper closed the door to the outside world and breathed a sigh of relief. He had the rest of the day to himself. The 4am starts were hell, but at least he was done early. That gave him the rest of the day to get chores done, relax at home, or hit the bars near the docks. As usual, the final of these three options had proven the most tempting, but with Hawkeye _yet again_ out of work, money was tight, and Trapper was having to force himself to kerb his habit. Some days were more successful than others, but today was one of the good days, and so, he had headed for home after just three beers, albeit begrudgingly.

Before he made his way up the large, old-fashioned staircase that rotated in a clumsy, square-sided spiral up the centre of the building, Trapper glanced, out of habit, at the mail boxes by the door. For the second time that week, envelopes were sticking out of their box.

With a snort of annoyance, Trapper plucked their mail from the slot without even needing the key. "So much for security."

He flicked through the letters with his usual sense of dread. Most were outstanding bills. But the largest made Trapper cringe.

It was a large manila envelope, folded lengthways so it could be stuffed into the letterbox, and addressed to 'Benjamin Franklin Pierce'. One corner of the envelope was ripped, revealing what appeared to be the well-muscled shoulder of some beefcake model, and the words ' _Male Physique_ ', printed in vivid yellow across the cover picture. Trapper shuddered, and footsteps on the stairs prompted him to hide the envelope.

He looked up as Joe, the neighbour from down the hall, shuffled down the stairs in his torn jeans and stained singlet, clutching a garbage bag. Joe made Trapper's skin crawl. He had a way of staring at you and making if very obvious he was trying to figure you out.

Trapper didn't want Joe to figure him out. In fact, Trapper didn't want Joe within a hundred yards of him if he could possibly help it. He had already had one altercation with the guy after he'd passed him on the front steps one morning and overheard some non-too-pleasing comments about the young black family who were moving in on the second floor. Joe didn't much like Trapper's contribution to the discussion, either, and some heated words were exchanged. It was only once Joe had realised that Trapper could easily take him in a fight that he had eventually backed off, muttering something about 'lowering the tone of the neighbourhood' before wiping his nicotine-stained moustache on the back of his hand, taking another swig from his beer can and spitting onto the sidewalk.

Not caring to be caught up in another 'conversation' with Joe, Trapper walked briskly towards the stairs. Joe fixed him with a disapproving glare, and Trapper kept his eyes forward. They passed one another in silence. Trapper tensed, his palms sweaty. Joe slipped past him in his tired, shuffling gait, wheezing with every step.

He almost missed it. He could have carried on without comment and it would have been entirely plausible that he just didn't hear, it was that quiet.

Joe reached the hall, sniffed loudly and cleared his throat. "Faggot."

Trapper stopped. A shiver went up his spine and his hand tightened around the bundle of letters. He should be used to this by now. Why could he never get used to it? Why did it feel like a fresh wound every single time? You'd think he had enough battle scars to numb the hurt by now.

He turned slowly on the stairs, narrowing his eyes. His fists clenched at his sides. His words came out in an angry snarl. "What did you say?"

Trapper shook. He actually shook. He wanted nothing more than to knock the smarmy little shit to the ground and beat that knowing sneer clean off his face. But he couldn't. He'd learned from experience that outbursts of violence were only likely to land him in trouble with the super, or worse, the police. He was all too aware, however, that Joe could probably do the same to him and nobody would bat an eyelid. Oh no, that wouldn't matter at all. Joe was an obnoxious, bullying, arrogant piece of shit who beat his wife, left his empties on the steps, and made newcomers' lives a misery, but he was still a more respectable citizen in the eyes of the police than the pair of homosexual army discharges who lived upstairs.

Joe turned to face him, eyeing Trapper as if he was dirt, sneering as he raised his cigarette to his lips and blew the subsequent smoke in Trapper's direction. "I didn't say nothin'."

And neither did Trapper.

" _Hawk_?!"

Trapper's shout rang through the apartment like a thunderclap, and Hawkeye practically fell off the couch. He'd fallen asleep in front of the morning cartoons, a plate of toasted bagels upended on the blanket he had succeeded in kicking into an untidy lump, and his instant coffee abandoned and tepid on the table in front of him. He was naked, save for Trapper's old black robe, and yesterday's mismatched socks. As Trapper watched, Hawkeye tried to regain some semblance of dignity as he hauled himself back into a sitting position on the ugly yellow couch.

The door slammed, shunting Hawkeye unceremoniously into the land of the living. He looked about himself with bleary eyes.

Trapper glared at him. "Have you been there _all_ day?"

He wasn't all that surprised. Hawkeye was a permanent fixture on the couch these days, both day and night. He hadn't worked for months now, and Trapper used the term 'work' broadly. Usually, when one of the pair of them found himself unemployed, he would pick up the slack with the housework while the other earned their keep, but, for the past few months, Hawkeye hadn't even made an attempt at cleaning.

Hawkeye didn't feel like cleaning. He didn't feel like anything much. It had been four months now since he had accepted the clinic job offered to him by old med school 'friend' Quentin McCauley. The most exciting opportunity to come his way since his residency! Then, not long after, he had discovered just precisely what had been expected of him in exchange for such a favour, when Quentin had trailed his fingers up Hawkeye's thigh as they sat in the empty parking lot in his sporty little Mercedes. The betrayal had cut him deep, worsened by the fact that he couldn't bring himself to tell Trapper what had happened. He also couldn't begin to think about admitting that he was almost inclined to take his boss up on his offer; that he hadn't pushed him away until those fingers had made their way up to his crotch. He'd just frozen, half stunned, half excited. Shame had soon joined the mix, too. It was the shame that resurfaced in his dreams when he remembered how _torn_ he'd felt, how close he'd come to infidelity, and to walking away, and with a man who had treated him like a piece of meat.

He hadn't told Trapper the details. In fact, he hadn't mentioned the incident at all. Eventually, after continued pressure from Trapper to explain why he'd quit, he had offered up a heavily censored version of the truth: that he had quit because it was awkward working with an ex. His revelation was met with the words " _I guess that writes off half the medical profession in this city and in Chicago_!" Hawkeye hadn't responded. He knew well enough by now how Trapper felt about the notches on his bedpost, particularly those of the male persuasion, and he didn't feel like getting into another argument regarding his former lover.

Now, however, it was his current one who was making him feel awkward. Hawkeye pulled his robe a little tighter around himself and tried to get his bearings. "I just lay down for a nap. I was tired."

Trapper nodded. "Right. It must be exhausting doin' a whole lotta nothin'." He tossed the envelope containing Hawkeye's magazine onto the coffee table. "You wanna tell me what this is?"

Rubbing his eyes, Hawkeye glanced at the publication and cringed. He knew Trapper hated his penchant for erotica. At best he considered it seedy; at worst, a personal affront. Hawkeye considered it none of Trapper's business. Admittedly, Hawkeye's stack of filth had been growing over the past couple of years. You could hardly move in their apartment without tripping over naked girls playing volleyball, or sailors in nothing but their hats and jockey shorts. The recent decline of their sex life had taken its toll in more ways than one.

"It's a magazine, Trapper. You see, they crush pulped wood into sheets and use this machine called a _printing press_ to–"

"We're broke, an' you're buyin' pornography? With _my_ money."

" _Magazines_. I read them, too, you know. There are _articles_."

He tore open the envelope and began flicking through, partly to prove a point and partly as an act of rebellion.

Trapper glowered as Hawkeye buried his nose in the magazine. "Ya do know," he spat, shrugging off his grubby overall and ditching his boots under the table, "that the government can _track_ who orders those things? That's the only reason why they don't shut down the companies who print 'em. Do you wanna get us arrested? _Again_?"

"Ordering a magazine isn't a crime."

Making as much noise as possible, Trapper began to clear Hawkeye's mess off the coffee table. "No. But sodomy is."

Hawkeye couldn't let that go without comment. "Don't use that word, Trapper. We do _not_ 'sodomize'. We _screw_. Bang. Make love. Have a good time. Have sex. Carnal knowledge. Intercourse. Get off. Get it on. Get it up. Get jiggy with it. _Fuck_ , if you want to be vulgar. Fornicate, if you want to be Biblical. But we do _not_ 'sodomize' in this house." He turned a page angrily, raising his voice as Trapper stomped off to the kitchen and dumped the crockery on the counter. "I've never known a single gay man who called it 'sodomy' and I don't plan on adding it to my bedroom vocabulary any time soon!"

Something in his rant touched a nerve: "Keep your damned voice down," Trapper hissed, shovelling plates into the sink.

It was a complaint Hawkeye had heard too many times already. Over the past year, Trapper had gone from secretive to outright paranoid. It was stifling! Irritated, he launched himself off the couch and followed Trapper into the kitchenette. "Oh _, get over yourself_ already. Nobody's going to hear, and nobody's going to _arrest_ us - not for sodomy or for anything else. How are they going to prove it? Send someone round to plant a camera in our bedroom? Are we gonna turn in one night and find a CIA man hiding in our closet?"

Trapper merely snorted. The CIA would have to camp out in their bedroom a pretty long time before they saw any action these days.

"Besides, it's the ones in the State Department they're going after. An unemployed bum and a janitor aren't exactly a threat to national security. They don't give a _crap_ about us." He turned another page. "Oh, look – a quiz! I love these. 'How to tell if your boyfriend is a paranoid jackass'."

Trapper snatched the magazine off him. "Give me that." He dumped it on the counter and set about doing the dishes in that passive-aggressive way that generally meant more got broken than got clean. Their cheap water heater rattled and the pipes hissed loudly.

Hawkeye cringed at the rattle of the crockery. Clearly, Trapper was in one of his moods. Probably drunk too much, or too little. Either way, Hawkeye's sympathy had long since run dry, and he tended to handle Trapper's moods with either outright avoidance or sarcasm. One this occasion, however, he tried to find it in his heart to reach out: "Okay, I'll bite. What's eating you this time?" he rolled his eyes and lounged against the counter. "Is this because I didn't scrub the apartment like a good little housewife? Or is it because of the nudey magazine? Are you _jealous_ of my two-dimensional squeeze?" He flirted the magazine at Trapper, waving a photograph of some well-built young man who was about half Trapper's age and in far better shape.

"Oh, get _outta_ here with that!" Trapper swatted him away and dropped a stack of plates into the dishwater with an alarming crash.

"What is your _problem_?!"

Trapper stood in silence for a moment watching the bowl fill. "Old Joe Jenkins from down the hall called me a faggot."

Snorting, Hawkeye leaned against the counter. "Is that all?" Picking up his cold coffee, he took a sip, made a face, and spat it back out.

" _Is that all_?" Trapper gave him a look of utter incredulity. "You do know what this means, right? It means they're onto us. Your stupid magazine was stickin' outta our mailbox all morning, while you sat up here on your ass watchin' TV. I don't like it when the neighbours start gettin' wise! You think I want us to lose the apartment? You want us to get driven outta this place like the Belmonts were last month? You think I wanna come home an' find you with a black eye an' a split lip? _Again_?!"

"Trapper, Joe Jenkins says the same thing about the rockabilly in apartment 3B just because he puts too much wax in his hair! He throws words like that around the same way he does beer cans. Don't let him get to you."

"Too late." Trapper turned the tap off and plunged his hands into the hot water. He passed the dishcloth over each plate a couple of times before dumping them on the side.

Hawkeye watched him, resisting the urge to comment on what a lousy job he was doing. "Oh, come on." He was half comforting, half annoyed. "People call us that all the time. Quite frankly, as long as none of them are kicking the crap out of us, I don't _care_ anymore." He dumped his mug on the counter.

"Yeah? Well, I do." Trapper dried his hands. There was a stack of (almost) clean dishes on the counter. "You can do the rest," he said, emphatically dropping Hawkeye's coffee cup into the basin with a clatter. "I'm takin' a nap."

But Hawkeye followed him down the corridor towards their bedroom. He was still talking. Trapper tried to ignore him. He'd had this pep talk before and it never got any easier. "Oh, for Christ's sake! You can't let every sack of crap who calls you a name get to you! This happens every time – _every time_! I've been telling you this for years – you have to stop giving a damn what these morons think!"

There were no sheets on the bed. Oh, of course – Hawkeye had been 'nesting' on the couch again. Why did he have to keep doing that? Trapper stalked back to the living room with Hawkeye trailing.

"What – like _you_?" Trapper snorted and gathered up the bedsheets and his prized McIntyre tartan blanket – now covered in crumbs – from the couch. "You think I should start leavin' magazines with naked guys on the cover lyin' around in the hall? Or shootin' my mouth off about our sex life so as the neighbours can hear? Or maybe I should just paint a big purple banner outside our apartment with the words 'homos live here', seein' as you wanna _advertise_ so damned much!" He stomped back in the direction of the bedroom, with Hawkeye in pursuit. Halfway down the hall, he stopped and turned.

"Who said anything about advertising? I'm trying to understand why it's the end of the world because some guy you barely know calls you a queer!"

" _Because I ain't_!"

Hawkeye shivered. The apartment wasn't cold, but he felt a distinct chill. Trapper's words were like ice. In spite of not feeling in the _slightest_ bit amused, Hawkeye laughed. "This is news to me."

Trapper stared at the floor. "I'm done talkin' about this now. I'm goin' to sleep."

"Oh no no!" Hawkeye grabbed the armful of bedding and pulled it out of Trapper's grasp, blocking him on his way to the bedroom. "You don't get to say something like that and then bail on me!" He stood and stared at Trapper, feeling almost sorry for him. "Where the hell did _this_ come from? You didn't get your end away for a few months and suddenly your heterosexuality grew back?"

Trapper's face twisted into a grimace. He'd already said too much. He was tired and cranky and the beers he'd had that morning had served only to loosen his lips rather than numb his misery. "I'm just sick of bein' called those things every time I step out my front door! Like these people don't see anythin' about me 'cept the fact that I go to bed with _you_! I was _married_ before all this, y'know? Married! _Respectable_! I was a _father_ goddamn it! I've been with one guy – _one_ – an' that's you. So when you add it all up, I don't see why I should get slapped with the same label as..." He fell silent, but the insinuation was enough.

Hawkeye narrowed his eyes. "You know, I hate to break it to you, Trapper, but the people who are doing the name-calling aren't _exactly_ stopping to do the math."

"I _know_ that…" He could see the disappointment on Hawkeye's face, but he couldn't explain how he felt. Everything was a hot cocktail of shame no matter which way he looked at it. He'd _tried_ to do what Hawkeye did and take it all on the chin. He tried the label on for size and all it did was make him feel lousy. He'd tried looking himself in the mirror and calling himself those things – everything from the scientific to the profane – and every one made him wince. Every time someone hissed those words to him in the hall, or another potential employer muttered them under his breath upon reading Trapper's military discharge among his records, it felt like a searing brand against his skin. This wasn't a label he wanted. "Look, this ain't about you, so don't take it personal. I know you're all… up in arms over the law an' doctors an' therapists an' all, but it ain't part o' me the way it is for you! I just don't see myself that way, an' I don't like gettin' called _that_ – not by you an' not by anybody. It just ain't me – not by a long shot. You ain't the rule – you're the _exception_."

He had hoped his words might go some way to defusing the volatile situation. They didn't. Hawkeye fixed him with a steely glare. "Right. A _nine_ _year_ exception. An exception not insignificantly longer than your oh-so-respectable marriage, I might add! If I make a decade do I become the rule? Or is there too much paperwork to apply for fully fledged initiation into the House of Homo?"

Trapper winced. Even in _jest,_ the word stung. "It's just a _label_ , Hawk. An' it ain't even a nice one."

"It's good enough for me." Hawkeye's eyes glistened.

"Yeah, well you can call yourself what ya like, but I ain't like you. So just drop it."

"Oh, because you've slept with women? Is that it? Are we forgetting that you're not the only one here with more than a few notches on _that_ particular bedpost? Or is it your oh-so-successful marriage? Is that what makes you different from me? Because of a shotgun wedding your folks forced you into to preserve the good Catholic name of McIntyre? Is it because of _that_?"

"No! It's because I ain't interested in men!"

"And what the hell am I, Trapper? _Chopped liver_?! I'm not your mistress and I'm not your girlfriend and I'm _definitely_ not your wife! I'm the _man_ you've been involved with for the past nine years! The man you left your wife for! The man you're _living_ with! The man you claim to love – not that I see much evidence for _that_!"

"Hey – I _try_!"

"Bullshit! You haven't touched me in months!"

"I ain't the one who stopped touchin'! It ain't _my_ fault you'd rather jerk off over a picture in a magazine!"

"Well, _maybe_ if you did something other than climb on top of me and bang away like a jackhammer–"

Trapper cringed. The walls between the apartments were thin. "Jesus, Hawkeye! Keep your voice down!"

Hawkeye's lip curled, and he balled the blankets up and threw them into the bedroom doorway. The door swung inward, banging into the dresser and knocking over a framed photograph from their last trip to Maine. "Will you _stop_ with the damned neighbours?! Why are you _like_ this?! _Every time_ I so much as _mention_ anything personal, _no_ – mustn't let the neighbours hear! God forbid the neighbours hear the dirty queers talking about their dirty sex lives! Oh, sorry – that's just me isn't it? The dirty queer and the staunch, upright, morally superior heterosexual man he's sleeping with!"

"Goddamnit, will you _shut up_?!" Trapper was actually shaking. He'd gone bright red, his eyes dark and angry, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Hysterical now, Hawkeye actually laughed in his face. "That's what this is about, isn't it? It's not the _words_ that bother you – it's the fact that they're _true_!"

"Hawkeye, I swear to God… If you don't shut your yap…"

"You're so _embarrassed_ by us that you'd rather _deny_ it than deal with it!"

"That's _not_ what I–"

"So why don't you just say it? You don't have to admit it to anyone but me, but just admit it! You're a queer! There are at least two legal documents with _your_ name on that state for the record that you're a homosexual! Face the facts, goddamnit! You're as bent as the guy you're fucking! You're a blue-discharge card-carrying member of the fairy brigade! You're a bona fide _fruit –_ and it won't make a damned bit of difference whether–"

He got no further. Trapper's fist caught him across the jaw, and the entire left side of his skull exploded in agony. Stunned, he fell back, and his feet tangled in the blankets. A second later, he hit the deck, cracking his elbow on the doorframe on his way to the floor.

Trapper's breath caught in his chest. He felt as if a bucket of cold water at been thrown over him. His anger melted away, and the sight of Hawkeye lying on the floor in front of him filled him with a dread he'd never felt before. He hadn't even known what he was doing – he hadn't thought about it. Everything from the hallway to this moment felt like a blur, like he was watching himself through a haze of fog. But not now. Now it was crystal clear, and Hawkeye was groaning in pain and trying to stagger to his feet. Trapper reached out to try and help him.

"Hawkeye? Hawkeye, I'm sorry! I–"

"Don't you fucking touch me, you son of a bitch!" His voice was low, but his message was clear. The hand he put up to stop Trapper coming any closer was shaking, and the anger that flashed in his eyes was tinged with fear.

Trapper backed off instantly. His back hit the wall and he pressed against it, wishing for all the world he could just disappear. He never knew Hawkeye was capable of such venom. His voice was almost _dangerous_ , filled with hatred in a way Trapper had never heard before. Trapper wanted to throw up.

Hawkeye managed to clamber into an upright position, leaning heavily on the dresser. Slowly, he caught his breath, lifted his head, and opened his eyes.

Neither one of them was capable of moving, Hawkeye in shock, Trapper rooted to the ground in fear and shame over what he'd just done. There they stood, each frozen on either side of the doorway, and Trapper could no more step across that threshold than he could swim the Pacific.

Neither of them spoke, an uneasy calm settling in after the violent storm. There wasn't a sound, save for Hawkeye's slightly laboured breathing. He rubbed at his jaw where Trapper had hit him, eyes still locked on him, like he didn't trust him not to lash out again. The punch wasn't hard, but there was blood on his lip where his teeth had cut into it, and his elbow was beginning to throb. He was more shocked than hurt, but the line that had been crossed was a blow he never saw coming, and he couldn't measure in words how much that stung. He could feel blood oozing from the wound on his arm, and pressed his hand to it, wincing.

Trapper's insides squirmed. "Hawkeye?"

"Don't!" There was fire in Hawkeye's eyes as he looked up, and blood on his palm where it had pressed against his elbow.

"Please, let me help?" Trapper's voice cracked.

"I said _back off_!" Hawkeye took a step away, still shaking. Without taking his gaze off Trapper, he scooped the bedding off the floor, his hands trembling. There were tears in his eyes, but his expression was angry and resolute.

"Hawkeye, I'm s…"

" _Save it_!" He was actually backing into the bedroom, one hand raised to keep Trapper away. "I'm going for a lie down," he stated, his voice betraying the beginning of tears simmering just beneath the rage as he jabbed a finger in Trapper's direction. "You… stay out."

He kicked the door closed, and it slammed in Trapper's face.

* * *

 ** _This story will continue next Saturday night. Please feel free to leave comments, or follow my tumblr under "hawkeye_piercintyre". If you have any questions, feel free to contact me, I don't bite._**


	2. The Debris

**_Author's notes:_** _Some mild gore in this chapter as we deal with Hawkeye's injuries. Also vomit references. Continuation of themes from previous chapter is a given, but again, if anybody wishes to contact me for whatever reason, do feel free to PM me._

* * *

The door closed. The apartment fell into silence. And Trapper found himself gasping for breath. The separation was physically painful, and he felt as if Hawkeye had taken all the oxygen with him and left him suffocating in his own guilt.

He'd hit Hawkeye. He'd hit the one person still in his life who he cared about. And all over what? Because some old man had called him a name in the hall? Because Trapper couldn't direct his anger towards the right people and he'd taken it out on the one he loved?

He loved Hawkeye. He hadn't said it in so long, but he still felt it. And this was how he showed it?

He stood there for the longest time, frozen to the spot, the world lurching around him as he leaned heavily against the wall, pressing into it, wishing he could just disappear, knowing now just how ridiculous his words had been, how irrational and unjustified his anger. His denial seemed the height of absurdity with the glorious benefit of hindsight, a ridiculous delusion he'd left festering for years – a poisonous tumour of self-loathing in the back of his mind that grew a little every time had had to show his discharge papers, or when Hawkeye stood a little too close to him in public and drew the disapproving glares of passers-by.

He shook his head, trying desperately to clear it, and managed to tear himself away from his vigil at the bedroom door. His skin prickled with a cold seat, and he ran a hand over his face to rid himself of the clammy, disgusting feel. What was it Hawkeye had asked? " _Are you ashamed of me_?"

' _No_ ,' Trapper thought as he hauled his weary body back to the living room to lean heavily on the back of the couch. He wasn't ashamed of Hawkeye. He envied him. He couldn't fathom how Hawkeye had this ability to just deflect the emotional bullets of society; how he took their words and their barbs and _owned_ them, took them and absorbed their power. Those same words that he laughed at plagued Trapper's mind on a constant basis. They popped into his head at the most unwelcome times: when Hawkeye kissed him unexpectedly, or when they tried to sit down for dinner together like a 'normal' couple, or if he allowed himself to think just a little too much about what they did in bed together.

Even now, as he tried to think on the evident demise of their sex life, he found himself recoiling in self-loathing. Trapper had to admit he was a selfish lover, but it wasn't for want of trying. It was just that every time he touched Hawkeye, a whole litany of damning words would roll through his head. At first he had tried to accept them. ' _I'm a homosexual_ ,' he would think to himself, trying the idea on for size. Then, a tidal wave of other thoughts – of other words – soon followed: ' _Queer… fairy… fag…'_ The words haunted him, never sounded right, never fit right. The simple act of lovemaking invited as much shame as it did pleasure. Making love to Hawkeye was a damning confirmation of his own nature. Far easier to just skip the foreplay, outrun the feelings of shame before they could burrow into his brain, bury himself in his partner the way he used to do with Louise and be done with it. Don't stop, don't think, don't feel. And then, when it was all done, dive into the shower to scrub the shame from his body.

No wonder Hawkeye had pulled away from him.

And he was right to, Trapper realised with dreadful clarity. He didn't deserve Hawkeye. Hawkeye who would gladly take his hand and parade down Tremont Street with Trapper on his arm if he could, and to hell with the consequences. Hawkeye was _proud_ of who he was; proud of the man he loved.

The man who had struck him out of sheer anger and knocked him to the floor.

All because he had fought too hard for Trapper to stop hating himself.

The stab of guilt at the very thought of what he'd done physically winded him, and he folded in on himself, gasping for breath, as a wave of bile rose in his throat. Overcome, he ran for the bathroom.

Some minutes later, still curled up in a trembling heap on the cold tiles, he tried desperately to think of a solution. It felt strangely tranquil, lying there with his head on the rim of the toilet bowl, swallowing to try and rid the acidic burning in his throat. What could he do? How could he fix this? His instinct was to throw himself at Hawkeye's feet and beg for forgiveness, but he knew how much of a ludicrous, futile gesture that would be. ' _Good luck with that…_ ' Trapper thought bitterly. His laugh echoed in the bathroom. His issues ran too deep, his anger too quick, and it would be a long, uphill struggle for him to stand any chance of truly overcoming his demons.

And he knew well enough he was not that strong. Physically, yes, but not emotionally. He came into his own in the fistfights and the brawls in the street. He'd lost count of the times he'd had to save the pair of them from a beating (admittedly because Hawkeye couldn't resist shooting his mouth off whenever someone made an obnoxious comment). Trapper would win the fight, and Hawkeye would patch him up afterwards.

He had to admit, when he ran over it in his head, that he had never really developed any other method for dealing with his problems than punching them until they went away. Another bitter, hollow laugh. "And look how well that's goin' for ya!" he addressed his reflection in the toilet bowl.

That was precisely his problem, and the thought of Hawkeye going away filled him with dread.

Finally hauling himself out of the bathroom, Trapper tried to focus his mind on something else – _anything_ else. He sat on the lumpy yellow couch and glanced over at the television. It had been a birthday gift from Hawkeye's father, to replace the awful black-and-white cheap set that Trapper had bought from the pawn-brokers. It was brand spanking new and up-to-the-minute modern, with fourteen inch screen in glorious colour and a polished wood setting. It was probably worth more than all the rest of their possessions combined.

Right now he wanted nothing more than to drown out his memories of the day with some mindless sitcom, but even _that_ felt wrong now. It didn't seem right to make use of a gift from his father-in-law now – not when the man's son was currently nursing the wounds he had sustained at Trapper's hand.

Groaning, Trapper buried his head in his hands, but he couldn't close his eyes to the image in his head: the sight of Hawkeye lying on the floor, the blood on his lip, the look of hatred in his eyes.

Not that Hawkeye could hate him any more than he hated himself.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He had to get out of the apartment. Go somewhere – anywhere. Just not here.

He shrugged his work overalls off and grabbed his jacket, noting the shaking of his hands as he struggled with the buttons, and glanced nervously towards the bedroom. He should tell Hawkeye he was going out. Shouldn't he? It seemed only polite.

He practically tip-toed down the hall, tapped softly on the door of their shared bedroom, and then, when he got no answer, pushed it open. "Hawk?"

Hawkeye was curled up on the bed, lying on his side with his back to the door. He hadn't made the bed – instead he'd pulled the sheet halfway over himself. The McIntyre tartan blanket was abandoned on the floor.

"Yeah?" Hawkeye didn't move.

Trapper swallowed. His mouth was dry and his chest hurt. Hawkeye looked so beautiful, such a familiar sight, curled up in Trapper's old robe. Trapper just stared at him for a moment. The bedroom window was open, the blue sky above Boston framed in a perfect rectangle above Hawkeye's head. The laughter of children playing in the street rang out from below, and what little breeze there was ghosted across his hair, fluttering a few errant strands. Trapper had never noticed before how grey Hawkeye's hair had become – or was that just the light from the window?

"I'm goin' out for a while," Trapper said at last.

"Good for you," came the reply.

"Hawkeye! I…" Trapper stopped. He could already hear the anger in his own voice, and he knew it would solve nothing. He left without another word.

In the dim, humid silence of his bedroom, Hawkeye lay perfectly still. He'd heard Trapper leave without pulling the bedroom door closed. He'd listened for the sounds of him picking up his wallet and keys, and then, a moment later, the slam of the door as he left. Silence crept through the apartment, and Hawkeye exhaled.

He sat up gingerly, his head pounding. He could do with an aspirin, but he knew for a fact they didn't have any. And Trapper had taken his wallet, so that left Hawkeye with precisely zero cash in the house. He prodded gingerly at his elbow, finding a patch of blood growing with alarming speed around a hole in his sleeve. He'd have to take a look at that.

He felt almost… nervous as he left the room. Like when he was a little boy, sneaking downstairs to raid the refrigerator while his parents slept, scared of being caught. Now, there was just fear. He was afraid of Trapper? The thought made him want to throw up.

He searched through the cabinets without giving much thought to what he was doing. He couldn't focus. He couldn't think of anything except…

Trapper had hit him. He'd never once imagined something like this could happen. Sure, they had yelled at one another from time to time… quite a few times lately, if he was honest with himself. But never this. He had seen Trapper's temper directed towards others, and frequently towards furniture, plates, and occasionally walls, but never at him. He hadn't seen that look on Trapper's face before, the way his eyes had gotten dark and his lip had curled in an angry sneer right before he…

Hawkeye shivered. He hoped Trapper stayed out for a long time. At last, he found the medical kit under the sink.

His elbow was a mess. He'd sliced it on the door latch as he'd gone down, and blood oozed sickeningly from beneath a loose flap of skin. His every instinct as a doctor told him it needed stitching, but his stomach lurched at the mere thought. His fingers toyed with the packet of needles, but, unable to face such a prospect, he moved away and picked up the cotton balls and TCP.

"Come on, it's just a little disinfectant," he scolded himself as he, he slopped a generous amount of TCP onto a cotton swab. "Might sting a little, mind, but it's really nothing to worry about. Trust me, I'm a doctor." Laughing momentarily at the ridiculousness of the one sided conversation, he set the bottle down and grasped the swab. Then, bracing himself for the pain, he held his breath and pressed it against the wound. " _Ah_!" He flinched, hissing and squirming and slamming his hand repeatedly against the kitchen counter. "See?" he quipped to himself. "Told you it wouldn't hurt." He let out another hiss and thumped the counter again.

' _Be brave_ ,' his father always used to tell him when he skinned his knee or fell off his bike. But Hawkeye did not feel brave. His stomach lurched and his head pounded and he wanted to curl up and wait for somebody else to come fix him up.

Only nobody was going to.

He dressed the wound somewhat clumsily with some gauze and a lump of cotton and some tape, and dumped the bloody swabs in the trash. There. Job done. Abandoning the medical kit, he shuffled back through to the bedroom, shrugging off his robe the rest of the way. As he tossed the garment onto the bed, he caught sight of his reflection in the bedroom mirror, and turned to examine his handy work. It was awful! The dressing was awkward and sloppy, and already soaked with blood. "And to think I went to medical school," he berated himself. He couldn't be bothered trying again.

He stood naked in front of the mirror, glanced at himself and wrinkled his nose. He didn't much like what he saw – skinny legs, grey hair, appalling posture, and a hint of a spare tyre forming around his middle. He stood up straight and sucked his gut in – a temporary solution.

What a sorry specimen of a man he was! Forty years old, looking well and truly past his prime, and stuck in a relationship with a violent drunk who could barely stand to look at him; someone who hardly even touched him with any degree of intimacy, save for a perfunctory hand-job, even when they _did_ have a sex life. How had he tolerated it for so long? How had he not noticed until he'd got so frustrated that he actually started _avoiding_ it?

Trapper was right – he _had_ stopped touching. But only because he'd stopped enjoying it. Only because Trapper was incapable of intimacy without intercourse, and even that didn't feel particularly intimate when he was expected to take care of his own needs while Trapper passed out beside him or headed straight for the shower.

Looking back, he was astonished it had taken him so long to notice. At first he had put Trapper's hesitancy down to lack of experience. Or to the aftermath of the awkward 'dry spell' of Maine where they had separate rooms under his father's roof. Or to the trauma of their discovery and subsequent expulsion from the Army. And then… Oh, there was a string of excuses stretching all the way back to Korea, only Hawkeye had never bothered to question them – he was just grateful to have Trapper in his life at all. It had been years before he had woken up one day and realised he was in a relationship with a man whose idea of foreplay was little more than a few kisses before pushing him onto his back and palming him a bottle of lubricant.

Hawkeye retreated to the sanctuary of his bed, pulled the sheet over himself and curled up into a foetal position, staring at the wall. Maybe Trapper wasn't even bisexual, he thought with chilling clarity. Maybe he was a straight man whom Hawkeye had seduced away from his wife and children. Maybe it was all a disastrous mistake born out of loneliness, desperation and a hint of curiosity, and he'd only stayed with him after his marriage broke down because he couldn't bear to be alone? No wonder their sex life was so repetitive.

' _No wonder he hates me_.'

He shook his head to the idea, refusing to go down such a destructive path. He'd seen with his own eyes the way Trapper looked at him – or used to look at him. There had been love there once, before drink and hostility and violence had crept into their partnership.

Ad suddenly, the thought brought tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat. He didn't try to stop them. There was nobody to see him crying, nobody to ask what the problem was, or to pry into his feelings. There never was. He had been silently grieving the demise of this relationship for months now, and it seemed nobody knew. Not even Trapper.

And so, for a few minutes, Hawkeye just let himself cry. Sitting alone in his bedroom, he wept openly for the first time, just allowing himself to feel. The despair that had bubbled up when Quentin had asked him candidly about his relationship with Trapper – despair that he had very swiftly quashed again as soon as the man made a pass at him – rose to the surface once more. Hawkeye let it rise.

It felt good.

By the time he stopped, he felt cleansed, his head clearer. Maybe better prepared to… make a decision, whatever that may be.

That thought made him shiver. What _should_ he decide? What did he _want_?

It was almost too much to handle.

Sullenly, he sat inert, poking at his satin robe with one naked toe. The garment had been Trapper's once, purchased from Tokyo while on R&R. Hawkeye had told him he suited the colour. At one time, it had possessed a red silken cord to tie around the middle, but this had long since gone missing – Hawkeye couldn't remember where – and been replaced with the fraying drawstring from a pair of old pyjamas.

Hooking the robe into grasping distance with his foot, Hawkeye grabbed it for a closer inspection of the damage done to the sleeve: there was a large, v-shaped hole at the elbow where it had caught on the door latch, the material torn open. Black threads of silk hung raw around the edges, interspersed with the occasional silver or gold. And, at the point where the material had pressed against Hawkeye's wounded elbow, the fabric was dark with blood.

Hawkeye's thoughts darkened with it, and he shoved it away with a scowl. The idea of salvaging things now, even if he wanted to, seemed impossible. How could he possibly provide an antidote for Trapper's self-loathing, even if he _did_ stick around? How could Trapper find peace when he was fiercely determined to distance himself from everything that they were – so determined that he was willing to lash out at Hawkeye for even _attempting_ to talk him around?

And how could Hawkeye forgive a man who had already crossed that line?

His mind wandered back to Crabapple Cove many years before, when he was just a child, and Muriel, now his father's long-serving bookkeeper and later practice nurse, was barely out of high school. Even at such a tender age, young Hawkeye knew something strange was happening when Muriel turned up on the doorstep in the middle of the night. It was long past his bedtime, but Hawkeye had padded out onto the landing in his jammies, clutching his blankie and rubbing his eyes.

" _Daddy? What's going on?"_

His father had been conversing with Muriel in the hall in hushed whispers, and looked up as if startled. " _Hawkeye_?" His mother had stepped in front of Muriel, as if to shield her from Hawkeye's sight. But Hawkeye caught a glimpse: Her nose was bloody, and one side of her face was swollen and purple. Hawkeye had never been able to get that image out of his head. " _Hawkeye_!" his father had snapped in a stern voice he hardly ever used. " _Get back to bed now – it's far too late_!"

But Hawkeye had not returned to bed. He had crouched silently at the top of the stairs and listened as his father and mother counselled the frightened nineteen-year-old. Hawkeye could still vividly remember his mother's words as they travelled up the stairs. " _Muriel_ ," she had said calmly, " _I'm not about to tell you what you should do. But once a man hits his wife, there's a fair chance he'll do it again_."

Hawkeye had been shocked at those words. He couldn't understand the words he had just heard! People who hit were playground bullies and the men who came staggering out of the speakeasy over the bait store late at night – men who weren't thinking straight because they'd had too much liquor. Husbands and wives were those lovely, loving people who smiled at one another and gave each other gifts and had pet names. They were people like his parents. Those people didn't _hit_ each other. And thus, Hawkeye's illusion of fairy-tale endings was shattered before he made it to double digits.

Muriel did go back to her husband, and he _did_ do it again. On the third occasion his parents had to drive up to the house to collect her, with Hawkeye in the back seat with his hands over his ears because the shouting scared him. On the fourth she was driven down by a neighbour. On the fifth, she stayed with them, living in the same little box room Trapper had stayed in after _his_ separation. There, she had studied for her bookkeeping qualifications, and Hawkeye's father became her first client. She moved out after a year, but remained close. Her ex-husband would give Hawkeye's parents filthy looks in the street. They would look straight back with their heads high, and Hawkeye had, from an early age, acquired a healthy contempt for men who hit their wives.

But what about men who hit their husbands, or any other convolution of genders? Was he supposed to be tough enough to take it? And if not, where were the people who would patch him up and tell him it wasn't his fault? Where were the kindly older couple who would counsel _him_ through the trauma and hold his hand and tend his wounds? Who around here would take in a battered homosexual when _his_ relationship fell down around him?

Again, his mind wandered back to the Cove and, not wanting to think on things much longer, he crawled into his usual spot by the window, still curled up in his sheet, like a child hiding from the world. He imagined his mother sitting beside him, giving him that same advice she gave Muriel, and for a short while entertained the thought of packing his bags and getting on the next bus to Maine. He could stay with his father, confess that it had all gone wrong; that Trapper had sunk to the lowest of the low, and Hawkeye wanted out.

Was that what he wanted? To pack up and ship out? To admit to his father that the man he'd given up his medical career for had betrayed his trust in the worst way possible?

Somehow, there was _shame_ mixed in with the grotesque cocktail of emotions churning in his gut – ludicrous, irrational, misplaced shame – and he felt utterly, painfully foolish.

Not wanting to think about it anymore, he reached over and pulled the cord on the blind, shutting out the outside world and snapping the lamp on instead. On his nightstand, there sat his father's old copy of ' _Last of the Mohicans_ ', a gift given to him the day he'd moved out. He hadn't read it in a long time – it just sat there out of habit. Now, he picked it up and flicked through the pages, choosing a passage at random. He knew the story by heart – he just wanted to hear his father's voice in his head.

* * *

It was late by the time Trapper returned. He'd managed to drink the last of his pay-check in the bar around the corner, and he had an awful feeling he wouldn't be making work the next day.

Today.

In three hours.

He staggered through the building, grateful that the other residents were asleep. He didn't want to contemplate what their neighbours would have heard of the argument, or what they might be thinking.

His mind wandered back to Korea, when Frank Burns had screeched news of his discovery all over the camp, gleefully exposing his tent-mates' torrid, scandalous affair to anyone within earshot. Now Hawkeye had practically done the same thing. How could he be so selfish?

Trapper groaned at his own thoughts as he reached the sanctuary of his – their – apartment. He couldn't get mad at Hawkeye. Getting mad at Hawkeye was precisely the reason why he had wound up drinking his body weight in gin. Getting mad at Hawkeye had got Hawkeye hurt…

The guilt rushed over him again. It seemed no matter how much he drank, the cycle of rage and shame kept repeating. He couldn't keep it at bay, and now, as he leaned against the door, his head swimming, his stomach churning, he decided in his drink-addled mind what it was he needed to do to fix it.

He had to say sorry. He had to make Hawkeye realise how sorry he was, and how bad he felt about what had happened. He had to know. Then he would forgive him.

Trapper had to lean on the furniture so as to not fall over. The floor seemed to move and the room was spinning, and a couple of times he thought he might fall down. The hallway to the bedroom was mercifully narrow, so Trapper leaned against the wall each time the floor swayed, and eventually he reached the bedroom.

He pushed the door open, and it banged against the dresser, causing Trapper to hiss and something else to clatter onto the floor, but Trapper didn't pay it much care. His attentions were already elsewhere.

Hawkeye was sleeping. The moonlight was coming in through the gaps in the blinds, and in the silver glow, Trapper could see him perfectly. He was lying on his back with one arm flung over his face, his lower body covered with a sheet. Trapper almost wept. How could he have hurt him? How could he have stooped so low?

Fully clothed and still with his boots on, Trapper clambered onto the bed and crawled closer. "Hawk? Hawkeye?" Hawkeye stirred a little, and Trapper slid an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek. "Hawkeye? I'm sorry…" Hawkeye mumbled in his sleep and Trapper squeezed him tighter. Hawkeye would forgive him and everything would be ok. It had to be.

Hawkeye was shaken from his sleep, bleary eyed and disoriented. He was groggily aware that Trapper was in bed with him, and his first reflex was one of panic, then fury. He shoved at him, removing the arm that was worming its way around his body and turning away as wet, sloppy kisses made contact with his face. "Trapper, leave me alone!"

"C'mon. I said I'm sorry."

Wide awake now, Hawkeye pushed him away again and sat up. "You're drunk."

Trapper gazed at him, his eyes red and his mouth hanging open. "I… I'm sorry, Hawk."

Frowning, Hawkeye looked at the sorry sight of a human being, kneeling on his bed and reeking of booze. "Tell me when you're sober," he muttered, pushing his sympathy to the back of his mind. "You're not sleeping in here. Get the hell out."

Considering the matter closed, he rolled over and pulled his sheet back over himself, shivering in the cold night air.

Practically on the verge of tears, Trapper slid from the bed and stood, shaking. Hawkeye ignored him and lay there, refusing to talk, refusing to accept his apologies. How could he be so cruel? Trapper fidgeted, awkward and embarrassed. He was standing on something soft, and glanced down to see his tartan blanket, balled up at the foot of the bed. He scooped it up.

"Are ya cold?" he asked Hawkeye gently. "Ya look cold."

"I'm fine," Hawkeye lied. "Now, would you please leave?"

Trapper hesitated, glancing at the door for a moment, then back at Hawkeye. What he would give to just curl up with him and kiss him and make it all better! Why couldn't he make it better? Sniffing, he unfolded the blanket and, with all the dexterity expected from one so intoxicated, began to tuck it around Hawkeye's exposed feet. Hawkeye kicked his leg and pulled his knee up to his chest, curling in on himself. Trapper's heart sank. "I… I'm sorry!"

Hawkeye snorted. "You said already."

"Hawkeye?"

" _GET OUT_!" At last, Hawkeye sat up, snatching up the blanket and throwing it at Trapper. " _GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME_!" Furious, he grabbed at something – _anything_ – to throw: his book, his alarm clock, a picture frame. Each item became a missile, each hitting the wall with a thud or a crash, until, eventually, Hawkeye ran out of ammunition and just curled in on himself, cocooned in his sheet, his head tucked in over his knees, praying for Trapper to leave.

And Trapper just stood there, lingering, almost in shock, as the debris of Hawkeye's outburst lay scattered around him. This wasn't supposed to go like this! Giving up, he took his blanket and headed for the door. As he did, something crunched under his foot, and he stopped, bending down to pick it up.

Their photograph from the summer in Maine. The frame was broken, the glass cracked, and Trapper felt a very real pain in his chest at the sight. He set the picture down on the nightstand where it belonged, and left the room, taking his blanket and closing the door behind him, message well and truly received.

Once he was gone, Hawkeye looked up and cast his eyes around the room.

He noticed the picture almost instantly.

Fuck. He hadn't meant to throw that. Gingerly, he picked the photograph up, studying it. Whether the glass had been broken by Trapper or himself remained to be seen, but, all things considered, it didn't matter much. Hawkeye simply looked at the picture. He remembered that day so well. The pair of them, fishing at the bank of the St Croix river, trying so hard not to argue, trying to keep it together. Daniel had taken the snap while they were standing up to their ankles in mud. They looked, it occurred to Hawkeye now, like any pair of forty-year-old buddies on a fishing holiday. Two guys who had left their wives to their own devices for a week or two while they wandered around the coast with a couple of rods and a tub of bait.

They didn't look like a couple. They never did. There were only a handful of photographs that existed of the pair of them, and every single one was like this. No touching, no kissing, no holding hands. Nothing that might draw attention when the prints had to be picked up at the store. Was this all they would have to look back on? Photographs of two casually indifferent 'friends', always three feet apart and never making eye contact? Was this really the picture they had to paint in order to get by in this world?

Trapper seemed to think so. And now that cold, hostile outer shell seemed to be bleeding through onto the inside. Life imitating art.

Hawkeye couldn't bear to look at it. He slammed the photograph face down on the nightstand and returned to bed, still cold, still shivering. He pulled his pillow into his arms and buried his face in it, muffling the sobs that threatened to escape him.

Meanwhile, down the hall, a world away from him, Trapper lay on the cramped single bed in the spare room, buried his face in his tartan blanket, and did the exact same thing.

* * *

 _ **To be continued next Saturday...**  
_


	3. The Eye

_**Author's note:**_ _The chapter contains some minor medical/surgical scenes and blood._

* * *

Trapper awoke to an irritating brightness, and an unfamiliar musty smell. Opening his eyes, he watched the room come into focus.

The spare room. Ugly, swirly brown wallpaper, faded curtains and stacks of boxes and suitcases. The room for the things that needed to be hidden away. Not his room. Not _their_ room.

He groaned as the memories of last night gradually replayed in his head like some awful horror movie. Had he really tried to apologise to Hawkeye by crawling into bed with him and slobbering all over him? What the hell was he thinking?

Cringing, Trapper sat up and glanced around.

He hated the spare room. Its very existence was proof of their status as undesirable tenants. They tried to rent two-bed apartments in order to maintain the pretence of being 'roomies'. The extra cost put an added strain on their already-tight finances, and the extra room merely became a dumping ground. As he surveyed the cramped little room, Trapper found himself surrounded by evidence of the precariousness of their living situation: suitcases stacked one on top of the other, half of them never unpacked; cardboard boxes folded down but never thrown away; bags of essentials ready to go in case they ever had to make a speedy exit and sleep in the car again.

Part of him told himself he should do so right now. Pack a bag and get out. Instead, he lay there and nursed his hangover.

The bed was covered with a yellow candlewick bedspread that had belonged to Hawkeye's grandmother. It smelled ancient and was threadbare in places where a very young Hawkeye had plucked at the material to relieve homesickness when staying at Granny's place overnight. Trapper ran his hand over the bare patches.

Hawkeye.

He must be awake by now.

Moving slowly to spare his aching head, Trapper sat up, pulled his blanket around his shoulders and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room lurched a little, and so did Trapper's stomach. When he stood, his head started to throb.

The living room was mercifully empty. If Hawkeye was home, he was evidently hiding out in his room. Their room. Whatever.

As he tried to work out where to go from here, the room started to spin. "Oh, crap…" Trapper dashed through to the bathroom and introduced last night's gin to the porcelain.

Having emptied his stomach and rinsed his mouth, he leaned heavily on the sink and glared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked pathetic – red, puffy eyes and a sallow complexion that suggested he was as sick as he felt. A drink of water helped ease the burning in his throat and wash the taste of bile from his mouth for the second time in twenty-four hours, and he returned to the living room with a glass, slouching against the counter of the kitchenette so he could at least _look_ at the coffee. It was then that he noticed the medical kit lying open on the counter, and the bloody swabs in the trash can beside it.

' _Fuck._ ' Trapper shuddered. Had he done that?

The evidence of his violent outburst made him want to throw up again, and he retreated to the sink for another glass of water. There, he found two broken bowls in the bottom of the basin, and Hawkeye's favourite mug was cracked from where he'd thrown it into the water. Trapper set it aside on the counter – maybe he could fix it.

He slunk off to the couch with his water to huddle under his blanket, his mind a swirling mess of regret and resentment. How could he make amends for this? It just seemed like too much. He could glue the cup back together, and Hawkeye could mop up his wounds, but could he ever regain his trust?

Just when Trapper thought he couldn't feel any worse, the apartment door swung open.

Hawkeye looked at him, and stopped, halfway through the door, his hand tensing on the latch as he hesitated. Trapper stared back, wide eyed, almost scared. The space between them seemed immense, and their normally cosy apartment cold and vast.

Hawkeye looked terrible. Pale and tired with puffy eyes, and a clumsy bandage wrapped around his arm that filled Trapper with both alarm and shame. He swallowed, but remained silent. Hawkeye stared. Trapper felt compelled to look away.

At last, Hawkeye reached a decision, stepped inside and kicked the door closed. "You're awake."

He sounded almost casual. Either he was calmer than he was last night, or he was making some attempt to disguise his disdain. Trapper hoped it was the former. He expected the latter. He searched for something meaningful and contrite to say that might aid the situation a little. He came up with nothing, and settled for "what time is it?"

Hawkeye looked at his watch. "Oh, about time for you to be getting home from work. I just called your boss, by the way. Just so you know, right now you're bedridden with a sudden case of the 'flu."

Trapper winced, and squinted through his headache. "She believe ya?"

"Let's just say my acting skills haven't exactly taken Broadway by storm. She said don't bother coming in tomorrow. Or, y'know, ever."

Trapper hung his head in shame. "Shit."

"Oh, and she's sorry to let you go," Hawkeye continued in a deceptively cheery tone. " _Clearly_ has a high opinion of you, although God only knows why."

"Mrs Ferrelli's a real sweetheart," Trapper explained, wringing his hands. "An' I had to go an' let her down…"

Hawkeye snorted. "Right. I mean _God forbid_ you go and _disappoint_ Mrs Ferrelli! Because _that's_ the real tragedy here: that our personal problems had to go and get in the way of the special relationship between you and Mrs Ferrelli!"

Trapper didn't have a response to that.

Dropping his house keys into the pot by the door, Hawkeye shoved his hands on his pockets and wandered over to the couch. "Would you _move_?" Trapper stared upwards. Hawkeye was standing over him now, and Trapper shrank away. "I want to watch my TV."

Trapper glanced about himself at the wide three-seater he was currently perched in the middle of. ' _This couch ain't big enough for the both of us_.' He almost laughed. Instead, he shifted over to the poorly-padded wooden armchair and let Hawkeye sprawl on the couch, as far away from him as possible.

Hawkeye stared at the TV, ignoring Trapper. Aside from the tinny blare of whichever World War Two movie this was, the apartment was stiflingly quiet.

"Do ya wanna talk talk?"

Without taking his eyes off the TV, Hawkeye shrugged. "Not really. But I have a feeling you're going to anyway."

Another lull. The dialogue from the war movie filled the gap.

"How's your arm?" Trapper asked.

"Hurts," Hawkeye replied.

It was all the information he was willing to relinquish. Trapper glanced at the blood-soaked dressing on his arm. It looked messy. For a doctor, he knew well enough that Hawkeye had a terrible track record in taking care of himself. "Can I take a look?"

"Want to admire your handiwork?" He turned and fixed Trapper with a cold stare.

"I'm _worried_ about ya. I just want make sure you're okay."

"Do I look like I'm okay?" Hawkeye's lip curled into an angry sneer. "My elbow's sliced open, I can only chew using my nose, and my lower lip is now sporting a fashionable set of teeth marks! I _like_ my lips, Trapper. I happen to use them for at least three of my favourite hobbies."

"I'm tryin' to _help_." Trapper knew he sounded more whiney than apologetic, but he didn't know what else to do. Saying sorry wouldn't fix things – it certainly wouldn't fix Hawkeye's arm – and in the absence of being able to be a decent partner, he may as well fall back on being a decent physician.

But Hawkeye was having none of it. "You _did this_!" His expression was pure anger. "What makes you think I _want_ your help?"

Trapper clutched his aching head. He wasn't sure how much of this was hangover and how much was worry. "I get it. I really do. I did a number on ya, an' I ain't about to sit here an' make excuses. You wanna be mad, then be mad. I deserve it. But you shouldn't need me to tell ya, you did a lousy job of that dressin'. That arm looks like it needs a doctor, an' seein' as circumstances bein' what they are, that doctor's gonna have to be me."

Hawkeye thought it over. Wordlessly, he made a little room for Trapper on the couch, his expression still furious, his body language closed and defensive.

Grateful to be granted permission to help, Trapper moved closer. "We can carry on fightin' once I'm done," he said, making a poor attempt at a joke.

"This isn't fighting. Does this look like fighting to you? I'm not fighting – I'm _angry_. You _hit_ me and I'm angry. Justifiably, I might add." His voice was quiet and even, Trapper noted, which was usually a sure sign that he was enraged. He only ever spoke this calmly with he was extremely mad.

"Point taken," Trapper replied. Gently, he peeled the dressing from Hawkeye's skin. Hawkeye cringed and hissed. "Jesus, Hawkeye…" His arm was a mess. The blood was barely congealing and it had clearly been oozing all night. "This is gonna need stitches."

Hawkeye stared at him. " _Stitches_? No, no…. it's just a… moderate laceration. Barely even goes down to the bone."

"Oh, come on! This is an infection hazard, an' you know it!"

And gradually, Hawkeye's expression changed from anger to resignation. It was no victory. Trapper had won the debate but felt like he'd lost the damned war. He retreated to the kitchen to wash his hands, not relishing the impending task one but and returned to find Hawkeye holding his arm out like a sulky child. His reluctant patient sat silently as Trapper rummaged through the medical kit, feeling almost nostalgic as he disinfected a needle and suture scissors, and pulled a pair of gloves on over his work-sore hands.

He paused, hesitant to even lay a hand on Hawkeye without his express permission.

"Well, are you going to just sit there nursing your guilty conscience or are were you planning on some actual _doctoring_ any time soon?"

And there was his permission, embittered as it was. Without rising to the comment, Trapper cleaned the wound again as gently as he could. Hawkeye winced and pulled away. Not since his early days as an intern had Trapper felt so uneasy treating a simple flesh wound.

"This is gonna hurt, isn't it?" Hawkeye's voice cracked a little.

Trapper winced. "I'll be as quick as I can."

His words offered little comfort. Hawkeye sniffed and stared at the TV, trying his damnedest to be brave. It wasn't working. As tears welled up, so did anger. "You son of a bitch…"

Trapper swallowed his guilt, disposed of his swabs, and selected a needle. "Sorry I can't give you a local," he muttered as he threaded his needle with 4/0 silk.

"I'd prefer a general." Hawkeye shuddered as Trapper prepped his instruments, barely taking his eyes off the TV. "Think we can manage that? All I need is a big, stupid oaf to smack me in the head so my brain rattles around in my skull. A little harder this time, Trapper."

Trapper licked his lips, and swallowed his shame. "I'll try not to hurt ya," he murmured, his voice tight. "You try not to flinch."

Nodding, Hawkeye resumed his vigil of the television, and Trapper began his task. It wasn't easy. Trapper had treated children with a higher pain threshold. He worked fast, but without an anaesthetic, Hawkeye squirmed and yelped and he had to hold his arm still to stop him from pulling away. Trapper hated every second. His fingertips left bruises. Every stitch felt like he was stabbing into his own guts.

He couldn't understand it. Hurting Hawkeye felt as unnatural as cutting off one of his own limbs. And yet _he_ had caused this. Him, with his vile temper and his denial and has daily after-work indulgence of two beers and a double Scotch.

He tried to push the thoughts from his head. He needed to focus. Another stab of the needle, another pained hiss from his patient. The job was done soon enough, but seemed to take forever. He cut the silk and re-dressed the wound. "You're good to go." He even managed a smile, more out of relief than anything else, as he ripped his gloves off.

Hawkeye glanced at him, his eyes glistening with tears as he grimaced through the pain. "Do I get a candy-cane?"

The joke made Trapper's heart soar. He gave Hawkeye's shoulder a squeeze, and he didn't pull away. "Oh, Hawk…" Almost wanting to weep, Trapper reached out for him, _aching_ to comfort him, to make it all better, but Hawkeye tensed, leaning away from him and pushing him back.

"Trapper, no."

Trapper froze, realising he had mistaken vulnerability for forgiveness as Hawkeye's hand planted itself firmly against his chest. Trapper slid back into the far seat of the couch and rested heavily on his knees, rubbing at his temples. Beside him, Hawkeye pressed himself into the opposite corner, his feet up and his legs bent as if to place a barrier between the two of them. As he looked across at him, Trapper found the stalemate alarmingly reminiscent of a similar stand-off with the former Mrs McIntyre. That one hadn't ended so well, and Trapper couldn't bear to imagine what it would do to him if this one went the same way.

But he had no other tools at his disposal than the same ones he'd used back then. He didn't quite have Hawkeye's arsenal of words and phrases, and so, with no other choice, he fell back on the old ones.

"I can only say I'm sorry so many times."

"Well, _that's_ good, 'cos I was getting tired of _that_ broken old record." Hawkeye shot him a fierce look.

"I dunno what got into me!"

Hawkeye scoffed and turned away. "Oh, same as always, Trapper! Three belts of Scotch and a beer chaser!" He glared at Trapper through the corner of his eye, nursing his elbow. "What were you _thinking_?" He sighed, shifting tighter into the corner of the couch and hugging his legs up to his chest. "Did you figure you could just blow up at me like that and then blame it on the drink like you always do? Or did you think because I'm a _guy_ it doesn't count?"

Trapper shook his head. "I weren't thinkin' anythin', Hawkeye. I just lost it." It was a lie of sorts. There had been all sorts of thoughts going through his head, but they seemed crazy now, and he didn't much fancy unpacking them. He knew well enough that Hawkeye didn't understand, _wouldn't_ understand. What was the point in delving into his issues? No, better to move on. Make it up to Hawkeye, and… earn his forgiveness, if he could. "If it makes ya feel any better, I spent all of last night lyin' awake feelin' awful."

"Is it supposed to?" Hawkeye shot him a pointed look. Trapper's sorries were meaningless, his remorse futile. He wanted _answers_ not vague, mumbled apologies. He needed Trapper to grow up and spit out the thing that was bugging him! " _No_ , Trapper, that doesn't make me feel better and it doesn't make me feel sorry for you, so spare me!" Frustrated, grasping at straws, Hawkeye tried another approach: "Look, I'm sorry I yelled. I wasn't exactly the most kind and understanding of people yesterday, I _know_ that. I don't know when to shut up, but that does _not_ give you an excuse, and it _doesn't_ make it okay. But whatever your problem is, just come out and say it! Let's have this out in the open and talk like mature grown-ups instead of screaming at each other for once."

But again, Trapper seemed to retreat into himself, arms folded. "It won't happen again. I give you my word."

Hawkeye stared at him, tense and still shaking, his last hopes dashed as Trapper mumbled his empty promises to the carpet. Frowning, Hawkeye grappled for words. "You give me your… ? Your _word_ is worthless! It's not as _simple_ as a few 'I'm sorries' and a night in the spare room doing your time! Things are fucked up between us – don't pretend you haven't noticed."

Trapper sighed. He'd noticed alright. He'd put so much of it down to circumstances – the constant evictions, bouncing from job to lousy job, and the abuse they got in the street if Hawkeye forgot himself and stood too close to Trapper in the sidewalk, or touched him affectionately in public. He'd barely given a thought to the other, hidden toxicity festering away within himself, much less figured out how to express it to Hawkeye.

"Yeah, I noticed alright."

"There is no instant fix for this. You can't put a Band-Aid over us and whip it off after a few days. You can't just… give me promises and an apology and then just _hope_ everything'll be alright! What you did…" Hawkeye fell silent, turning away and gazing at the television again for a moment. He sighed. He was getting nowhere and he knew it. "I don't know what's up with you. I've got a few ideas, but whatever it is goes _way_ beyond anything I can say or do. And you saying you're sorry isn't going to fix it either, because I honestly don't know if I want it _fixed_! All I know is that there's something you're not telling me. That, and that you're a goddamned _mess_!"

Trapper almost laughed. He didn't need to be told that. The trouble was he couldn't think of a single shrink in the city who could help him rather than reinforce his neuroses. He felt utterly helpless – trapped in a downward spiral with no hope of a way out. Cradling his head in his hands, Trapper stared at the carpet. "What do I do, Hawk?" he murmured. "Please, for the love of God, tell me what to do."

Shaking his head, Hawkeye shifted anxiously on the couch. "I don't know. I got no answers for you. This is for you to work out… with or without me."

Suddenly, Trapper's gaze snapped up, his eyes widening. "Are you… are you _leavin'_?"

Oh boy, there was a question! Hawkeye hesitated, licking his lips and shifting anxiously under Trapper's imploring gaze. He couldn't begin to vocalise the thoughts that had gone through his head in the past twenty-four hours. He felt totally paralysed, caught between the urge to get the hell out and the desperation for Trapper to show _some_ indication of wanting to redeem himself. "I don't know," he said again. "I don't know what I want to do." He paused, looking away. His honesty shocked even him, and he knew it must be devastating to Trapper. But maybe that was what Trapper needed? A wake-up call to get him to sort himself out? Hawkeye could only hope.

Trapper, however, was ominously silent.

"Anything you want to suggest?" Hawkeye's tone had an edge to it, waiting for Trapper to make some sort of contribution. None was forthcoming. He rose from the couch, skirted around the coffee table, and hit the button on the TV with a little unnecessary force. "Okay, I'll tell you what I'm going to do: In the interests of _feeding_ us over the next couple of weeks, _I_ am going to go _demean_ myself by going begging for work in some of the dive bars around the block. I saw some vacancies in a few windows on the way to the payphone. If I get lucky with my tips I might even make minimum wage."

His voice lacked his usual acerbic edge – he had been scraping a living for so long it had ceased to be funny. Trapper stared up at him. "Hawk – bar work?"

"What? I've worked bars before – helped to pay for that medical degree that I'm not using any more."

"But you _hate–_ "

"Yeah, well, _one_ of us has to make your child support payments."

Trapper went cold. It always pained him that, whenever Hawkeye was working and he wasn't, he would insist on siphoning off a portion of his meagre income to ensure Trapper didn't get into further trouble with his ex-wife and her phalanx of divorce lawyers. Now, the guilt trip was twice as bad. "Hawkeye, you don't have to…"

"No, I _don't_ , but what can I say? After nine years of partnership I feel strangely responsible for your financial welfare, especially as you've made it pretty damned clear these past few months that _I'm_ the reason your life is a pile of crap!"

"Aww, come on, I ain't ever said–"

" _So_ , I'll help you out with that _and_ the rent at the end of the month, _but_ – and listen to me on this, Trapper – if you haven't… pulled yourself together by then, if you haven't made some _serious_ progress, I'm taking the rest of my money, filling up the car, and taking a long, slow drive to Maine. _Alone_."

Nodding mutely, Trapper hung his head, his eyes stinging with tears he was too proud to allow to fall. He knew an ultimatum when he heard it. What he didn't know was whether he had the capability to claw himself back from this knife edge. His days were numbered, and his willpower weak. "I… uh…" he tried haltingly, "I understand."

Hawkeye paused. Had he really just said that? Had he really just threatened to leave? Was he being too hard? Too soft? Again, the urge to just bail tugged at him, but the desperation to see Trapper show some glimmer of reformation was pulling just as strong. But he suspected that glimmer could be a long time coming, and he was damned if he was cosying up to him until it showed up. Hesitating, he laid down the final demand of this painful, uneasy truce: "And… I think in the meantime… I'd like you…" He broke off again, his voice shaking a little, then took a deep breath and tried again. "I'd like you to move into the spare room."

Trapper stared at him. The words were spoken as gently as possible, but it didn't lessen the blow. And yet, even as the consequences of what he'd done sank in, that familiar fury rose in Trapper's gut. He wiped his palms on his knees, and crushed the anger inside himself. What kind of an appalling specimen of a human being had he become? He closed his eyes tightly, wanting nothing more than to block out this nightmare. "Okay…" he heard himself saying.

That was where the discussion ended. There were no more words. Trapper felt a sudden desire to leave the room. He got shakily to his feet. He may as well move his things now, before he had time to think about it. "This is just temporary, right?" He sounded pathetic, barely able to keep his voice from cracking. "I mean, uh…" he added, embarrassed, "the spare room smells like mothballs." He forced a hollow, trembling laugh.

Hawkeye looked away, his arms folded tightly across his chest, Trapper's attempt at humour just making him all the more uncomfortable. "Sure," he said flatly. "If I leave, you can have the whole damned place to yourself."

The possibilities those words carried were too much. Trapper didn't dare think about them. Instead, he left the room to pack up his things. Hawkeye flicked the TV back on, sinking back onto the couch as the war movie blared through the speakers, filling the room with the artificial sound of gunfire.


	4. The Pressure

And so, they fell into a routine for the next few days. Trapper washed the nasty yellow bedspread and the rest of the ancient linens in the spare room. Some of his pictures vanished from the master bedroom as he did his best to add a few personal touches to his cramped, cluttered home. He had his own space now, and Hawkeye had his. They operated almost in shifts, avoiding one another as if by clockwork. If one was going to be utilising the shared spaces of the living room, kitchen or bathroom, the other would retreat to his room to wait it out. Hawkeye managed to secure a bar job, but he'd been landed with the daytime shifts, so his tips were few and far between, and barely covered their essentials as he waited for his first check to come through.

Time spent together felt contrived – almost like a social experiment. Could Hawkeye trust Trapper well enough to relax in his presence? Could Trapper control his temper while he was around Hawkeye? Conversation was stilted and cautious, and heavy topics were avoided completely. It occurred to Hawkeye that the current _modus operandi_ seemed to revolve more around efforts to skirt around their issues, rather than any directed attempt to move forward. Trapper's final pay packet arrived swiftly, and he set it aside in savings in case Hawkeye's meagre salary didn't cover the rent, determined not to touch it. Within a day, he had caved and bought a case of beer. He rationed himself to three a day and considered it a triumph. Hawkeye didn't bother to hide his disappointment, but he couldn't bring himself to confront the issue, either. Instead, that night, he counted his tips, thinking only of the price of fuel, and the mileage to Crabapple Cove.

On Hawkeye's day off that week, they had resolved to do One Thing together – the grocery shopping.

Hawkeye hated supermarkets. Growing up in a small town, he found the notion of buying groceries from some place where the vendor hadn't grown the produce himself felt alien and impersonal. He'd adjusted to shopping in the city after he'd moved away, but the monolithic 'all-you-can-buy' shrines to rampant consumerism that had sprung up around them over the last decade were, as far as Hawkeye was concerned, about as far away from a pleasant shopping experience as you could get. But, on this occasion, the aim was to get the task done as quickly as possible, get everything in one place, and scurry back to the apartment pronto. Neither one of them felt entirely comfortable. Venturing out together felt like being on trial.

And so, together, they navigated the cold, sterile aisles of the supermarket, Hawkeye wrinkling his nose at the freeze-dried, pre-packaged offerings, and Trapper following after with a distracted expression and clammy palms. He hung back, glancing around the store, paying more attention to what their fellow shoppers were doing than what he was putting in their cart.

With a weary sigh, Hawkeye sidled up to him, trying so _very_ hard to keep the snark out of his voice. "I realise what it is you're trying to do," he said as gently as he could manage, "but if you could _maybe_ find it within yourself to stand at least within shouting distance so I don't have to radio in every time I need to check the list with you."

Trapper flushed, and glanced about himself once more, hideously aware that they were coming across a couple who were having a row. The very suggestion that they had any sort of shared responsibility in the task was sure to broadcast their intimacy to everyone in the vicinity!

At this moment in time, it was the middle aged couple who had been trailing them for three aisles who were the focus of his paranoia. As Hawkeye moved off to rummage in the diary section, Trapper glowered at the couple – he was certain he'd caught them looking in their direction at least twice now, and he wanted to try and catch them…

"Earth to Trapper!"

He turned, nearly knocking over a stack of juice boxes. "Huh?"

Hawkeye was looking at him with that tired, irritated expression on his face that suggested that Trapper was wearing on his last nerve. "I said 'how are we for milk?'"

Shuddering, Trapper glanced back at the couple, now loitering a few feet behind them. "No idea."

"You did the list – you put 'milk' – so how much do we need? A pint? A gallon? What's in the refrigerator?"

The middle aged lady looked up – if she wasn't staring at them before, she certainly was now – and Trapper bristled. "Keep your voice down!" His words were a dangerous, angry snarl, and he saw the shudder go through Hawkeye at his tone, too late to stop himself.

Hawkeye's eyes rolled so very dramatically they took his head and upper body with them. "Oh no, don't start this bullshit again. I'm not in the mood for this."

"An' I ain't in the mood to get thrown outta the grocery store!"

Hawkeye noted his rising voice, flung a carton of the offending dairy produce into the cart, and shoved it in Trapper's direction. "Would you get over yourself? It's not like we're fucking on the checkout counter!"

"Would you shut the hell up?!"

Hawkeye fell silent. But the expression on his face was far from one of compliance, and Trapper knew he'd stepped over the line. They finished the shopping in silence – a silence which continued all the way back to the apartment.

The car journey home was tense, and the air was stiflingly close. It was only once they reached the cool seclusion of the hallway that Trapper finally spoke: "Sorry I snapped atcha."

Hawkeye ignored him, fumbling with the keys as he tightened his grip on his armful of groceries.

Trapper scowled at his stubbornness and followed him reluctantly to the elevator, irritated. "I'm tryin'a do the right thing here, ya know!"

Hawkeye pulled the door closed with a rattle and a crash, and jabbed at the button. The mechanical whir of the elevator started up, concealing their argument, and Hawkeye sighed, leaning heavily against the metal cage and staring wearily at the man opposite him. "What do you expect me to say? 'Congratulations, honey. I _really_ appreciate only getting yelled at, as opposed to you _lamping_ me in the middle of the dairy aisle. Things are _clearly_ much better now. In fact, I'm all a-shiver with warm fuzzies over your newfound love and respect for me.' Is _that_ the kind of thing you're after? You want me to pat you on the shoulder and tell you it's alright?"

"Between you an' me, I think I've made a lotta progress!"

Hawkeye rolled his eyes at him.

"What the hell's that look for?"

"I need both my hands free for the round of applause you clearly deserve…"

The elevator reached their floor with a jolt, and Hawkeye shoved the gate open.

"Ok, fine, I raised my voice a little – but only because _you_ were bangin' on an' _advertisin'_ to everybody–"

Hawkeye snorted, and stepped out into the corridor. "Right, because apparently asking a simple question about the contents of our refrigerator is akin to ' _advertising our sexuality'_. Would you prefer we conduct all public conversations via _telephone_ now? You go stand at a payphone and I'll call in and–"

He stopped. Trapper nearly collided with him. They froze.

Between them and their apartment, were about half a dozen of their neighbours, standing around, gossiping in hushed whispers. Doors stood open, and several pairs of eyes were on them. Nobody moved.

Trapper shuddered and nudged Hawkeye forward. The hallway stretched out before them like a gauntlet. His attitude to such situations was to attempt to act casual. Hawkeye's, meanwhile, was to make eye contact with every single member of their gathered spectators on their way down the corridor. "Did we miss a Neighbourhood Watch meeting?" Trapper glared at him. Hawkeye was unbelievable! There was even a smile on his face!

The smile soon vanished.

As they reached their apartment, their audience's purpose became clear: there, daubed across their door in bright red paint, were the words ' _FAGS OUT_ '. Hawkeye frowned. Trapper stared at the floor. He could _feel_ their eyes on him. Accusing, judging… His palms were sweaty, and he fumbled with his keys. He couldn't get inside fast enough! Beside him, Hawkeye was doing little to improve the situation. He was… laughing – actually _laughing_. Doubled over in the middle of the hallway like he was about to drop the groceries. How could he find this funny?

As Trapper fought desperately to make his escape, Hawkeye addressed the crowded hallway: "Oh, I see what you did here! We're re-decorating! Is this the design committee? As much as I hate to impose on your artistic authority, I'd suggest something a little more in-keeping with the existing fixtures and fittings. You might want to consider a forest green, or-"

"Hawk, would you _shut the fuck up_?" Trapper wrestled the door open and gave it a kick.

His thunder effectively stolen, Hawkeye bit his lip and followed him inside. Trapper slammed the door behind him.

Inside their apartment, the silence was thick and impenetrable. Neither of them spoke, but Trapper set about putting away the groceries with a whole lot of unnecessary banging of cabinet doors and slamming of the refrigerator.

"Could you stop that?" Hawkeye asked eventually.

Trapper snorted and kicked the trashcan. "Why? Makes me feel better."

"You're making me uncomfortable." The words were enunciated with ill-disguised disdain.

"Oh, _I_ make you uncomfortable, do I?" Trapper tossed the grocery box into the corner. "An' what about those assholes outside? You were all smiles an' jokes with them when they were stood there, glarin' at us, _judgin'_ us, but _now_ you're turnin' chicken on me? I don't get you, I really don't! You know, this is _exactly_ what I was afraid would happen; why I didn't want you shootin' your mouth off. An' now you see what you've done?"

"Oh, so it's _my_ fault? That's interesting. Because if I remember right, I'm not the one who keeps storming in here spoiling for a fight every time someone calls him a name."

" _You_ mouthed off about us! Loud enough so the neighbours heard! I told you to keep quiet, damn it! I _told_ you to button your fuckin' lip!"

He kicked the coffee table, flipping it halfway over and spilling the contents across the carpet.

" _Would you CUT IT OUT_!"

Hawkeye's exclamation was more shock than anger, but Trapper wheeled on him. " _WHAT_?!"

Hawkeye flinched. It was barely noticeable, but Trapper noticed it. Behind the determined glare, there was fear. Hawkeye was _afraid_. Of _him_.

Hawkeye stood his ground, trembling slightly, and spoke with fragile determination: "Get out."

Stunned, Trapper froze. His temper faded, he was left shaking. Hawkeye stood before him, glaring at him, defiant, and Trapper felt a shiver go through him. "Wh-what?"

Looking away, Hawkeye shivered. He couldn't look Trapper in the face! His eyes screwed closed, and tears threatening to spill, he shook his head sadly. "You heard me."

"What… what d'ya mean? Hawkeye…?"

"You think this is progress? _Do_ you?" His words were an impassioned plea, but his tone was weak, his eyes tired and sad. Defeated. "You think trashing our place and… and smuggling beer into your room is going to prove to me how emotionally stable you are? Because I'm not convinced!"

Knowing he'd been caught, and knowing full well that he'd screwed up, Trapper floundered. "I… I didn't think you knew about…"

"Yeah, well I did! Tell me, Trapper, was it just the two dozen bottles you bought, or are there more hidden someplace I don't know about?"

"Hey! I _limit_ myself! I just didn't tell ya because I _knew_ you'd react like this! I'm _tryin'a_ cut back!"

"Spoken like a true addict!"

"I _ain't_ –"

"Fine. You're not an alcoholic. _Whatever_." Hawkeye pushed on. Already, he could hear Trapper's temper raising. He wasn't about to get drawn into another argument. He needed… What did he need? He tried to think rationally, push feelings aside and be _reasonable_ about this. He spoke calmly, enunciating every word, like he was trying to hold back. "I'm _not_ going to discuss this. I want you to go out, find somewhere to sit quietly for a few hours so I can _think_ , and _then_ , if you've calmed down, we'll talk. I am _not_ dealing with you when you're like this!"

"Talk?! What do ya mean 'talk'?" Trapper's eyes widened. "Are ya throwin' me out? Because I kicked the coffee table?!"

Hawkeye turned on him, a disgusted sneer across his lips and a look in his eyes that turned Trapper's guts to ice. "What? Do you want a _medal_ because you beat up on the furniture instead of me this time? I said _go_! Walk round the block, cool off, go do _something_ but whatever it is do it somewhere that isn't here! I don't want you _anywhere near me_ right now! Understand?"

His voice trembling, Trapper made one last ditch attempt to talk Hawkeye round. "No… no, Hawk, come on! I'm… I'm calm! We can talk! Let's _talk_ about this!"

It was a lie, and Hawkeye knew it. He closed his eyes so he didn't have to see the look on Trapper's face. "No. This isn't working. We're _not_ talking, we're _fighting_. _Again_! And I've _had_ it with this shit!" He wiped his face with his hand, still unable to look Trapped in the face. "Go on, get out of here."

Silent and cowed, Trapper nodded. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself! Dazed, he patted his pockets for his wallet, glancing about himself for the keys. At last, he found them in the little clay pot by the door, where they always were. He looped his finger around the key-ring, letting them dangle from his knuckle, his thumb running thoughtfully over the cool metal as he fought to calm both his panic and his temper. At last, he looked up at Hawkeye. "You'll still be here when I get back, right?"

Hawkeye glanced up at him, and, for a moment, he entertained the thought of just… not being here. But no, he didn't have the heart to walk out while Trapper was away. Nine years deserved a proper goodbye. If he was going to leave, he would damned well give the both of them closure, and say it to Trapper's face. Even if that day was today. "I won't go anywhere while you're gone," he replied, almost begrudgingly, a silent ' _yet_ ' clinging to the end of the statement. "If _that_ makes you feel any better."

Trapper did not feel better. He felt, for the most part, sick and ashamed. Hawkeye's words didn't seem real. He ran a trembling hand over his face, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. "Right. You're right. I'll go cool off an' we'll… we'll _talk_ , right? I just need to… step out an' calm down is all…"

Hawkeye's look was icy. " _You do that_."

Slowly, Trapper slunk his way to the door, feeling for all the world like a condemned man.

Hawkeye heard the door open, and added sharply: "And do me a favour and try to come home _sober_."

Trapper hovered, one hand on the door-handle. He couldn't reply to that – he knew he didn't have the resolve to keep such a promise even if he made it – and so, instead, he offered up one last, pleading case to Hawkeye: "I'm doin' my best, Hawk…"

Hawkeye turned away again, staring at the mess Trapper had made. "Oh yeah?" he murmured, a strange numbness stating to set in. "Well, your best _sucks_. What's it going to take, huh?"

Trapper gave no reply, and Hawkeye realised bitterly that neither one of them had any answers. There was nothing else to be said. Giving up, Trapper glanced back at him. "Do… do ya even _want_ me to come back?" This time, his tone was one of utter resignation.

Shaking his head in despair, Hawkeye gave a weak shrug. Did he? Did he _care_? He couldn't face that particular conversation now. He was too angry, too disappointed. Instead, he turned away and started to clean up the debris left by Trapper's latest outburst. "Do what you want," he muttered as he picked his way through the debris. "I don't care anymore." He heard the door close again, but did not even look up as Trapper slipped out quietly.

* * *

The clean-up took some time. That, Hawkeye had to admit, wasn't really Trapper's fault. Part of the mess was due to the fact that he himself had never had the energy or inclination to keep the place tidy over these past few months, despite Trapper's insistence that he _ought_ to, because _he_ was the one who wasn't working. As a result, the coffee table had been piled high with magazines, letters, dirty plates, candy bar wrappers, beer bottles, and countless other bits of detritus that should have been trashed or stashed weeks ago. It had never bothered Hawkeye – as long as he could see over the top of the heap well enough to get a view of the television, he didn't mind – but now, he was meticulous. He sat on the carpet, surrounded by the debris, picking through each item and sorting it into piles by category or owner.

He knew why he was taking so much time over it: it was something to do; something to take his mind off the fact that he was living with a man who now seemed to be routinely trashing their home as a healthier alternative to pummelling him. A man with whom he would be having a 'conversation' once he returned. What could he even _say_? What _was_ there to say? This whole situation was too fucked up for Hawkeye to even think on.

At last, he had neatly stacked his own possessions on the couch, and Trapper's on the table, and he was left sitting on an empty – if rather grubby – carpet.

This place was disgusting. There were crumbs all around the couch from Hawkeye's morning breakfasts, and lint trodden into the pile from Trapper's work boots.

And so, Hawkeye dragged the hoover out of the bedroom closet and cleaned, just like the good little housewife Trapper had wanted him to be. Somehow, it felt cathartic. There was something cleansing to be found in household chores.

And then, soon enough, it was done. He slipped the hoover back into the closet and stood, silent and still, staring at the open door. He was out of distractions. Now, he had to _think_ about there to actually go from here. And so, exhausted, he sank wearily onto his bed, mulling over the task that lay ahead.

His suitcase, a scruffy leather thing that had been lugged between far too many apartments and not enough vacations, sat in the corner of the closet, wedged in beside the hoover, and half buried under clothes that Hawkeye had never bothered to hang up properly.

He sat and stared for the longest time. His thoughts returned once more to Maine, to his childhood home, to the safety of his old room and his father. It would be so easy… so _nice_ …

He stood, taking the three paces it took to cross the room, until he found himself standing over the case, hesitating in spite of his best intentions. There was a tightness in his chest, and, overwhelmed with a feeling he was almost loath to permit to bubble to the surface, Hawkeye shattered. He fell against the wall, silent tears streaming down his face. The temptation of escape was calling to him, and he didn't care to resist. All other thoughts were drowned out by one single, all-consuming mantra: ' _I can't do this anymore_.'

He wanted out.

Tears continued to fall, blinding him temporarily as he sank to the carpet between the closet and the dresser, curled up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest. The sob that escaped him was almost inhuman, totally raw and unbridled. He'd been bottling up for far too long…

Lifting his head, his gaze fell upon the dresser beside him, and the photograph that sat on top of it, turned face down on the surface, right where he had left it having thrown it at Trapper only a few short nights before. Reaching up, he picked it up one last time. The crack across the glass suddenly seemed far too apt. His fingers traced tentatively across the broken glass, as if trying to claw back some memory of what they once were. But, at this precise moment, he couldn't recall anything beyond raised voices and broken crockery and the scar on his elbow that still throbbed at night.

He couldn't bear to look anymore. He set the picture back down, and, just as suddenly as they had started, the tears stopped. He was numb once more.

Maybe it was for the best. The phrase ' _defence mechanism_ ' ghosted across his mind.

Feeling hideously disconnected from his body, he clambered shakily to his feet. The suitcase now hung at his side, his hand wrapped neatly around the handle. It was so light to lift, and slid out from beneath the clutter effortlessly. That surprised him. Why, he had no idea. Was he expecting inanimate objects to start putting up a fight, telling him to stay? But Hawkeye knew better than to start looking for signs from the outside. The days he'd spent hoping for some indication that Trapper wasn't a lost cause had proven fruitless. There had been nothing. No signs, no progress, no hope. Just an endless cycle of yelling and destruction and denials. There was nothing left to cling to now. His emotional state hovering indecisively somewhere between numb and heartbroken, Hawkeye began to pack.

It was like being drunk. Maybe it was the emotional exhaustion, but he just couldn't quite get a handle on his emotions as he laid the case neatly on the bed and loaded it with his clothes.

It was a sorry collection. Hawkeye had once been something of a sharp dresser, but his wardrobe now consisted of worn-out slacks, sweaters that were losing their shape, and formerly bright shirts that were a sorry echo of their former, colourful glory.

What was it about his life that just… ate away at everything it touched? He felt like he'd aged about three decades in the past three years.

Gradually, his sorry collection of possessions was sorted and sifted and folded neatly into his bag. Toothbrush, razor, aftershave. All his paperwork, ID, useless diploma, accursed discharge paper. Everything immediately crucial to him packed into one small suitcase.

It was almost frighteningly how simple it was. He didn't need much: he could send a truck back to Boston for the larger things, like the TV, once he was settled. The case packed, he sank onto the bed beside it, still numb, still out of it.

The stab of emotion he'd felt earlier was gone, lost in the face of the finality of it all, the numbness taking hold. He almost missed it. Why couldn't he feel anything? Why wasn't the enormity of this looming over him? Why couldn't he _cry_ again?

Perhaps it would come later. Perhaps tonight, when he bid Trapper the goodbye he undoubtedly deserved, the tears would come. Or maybe on the journey home. Or maybe, in a few weeks' time, he'd be listening to something on the radio and a song would remind him of Trapper and it would all come flooding over him.

But, for now, there was nothing. He rose from the bed, closed the case, and deposited it beside the dresser, ready to go.

There was nothing to do now but wait.


	5. The Flood

NBC was showing a documentary about great classic cinema. Hawkeye loved movies. He'd lost count of how many Saturday mornings he'd sat in the dark in the tiny theatre in Crabapple Cove, squinting at the pull-down screen dangling above the stage, fascinated by the moving pictures that danced before him. Now, thanks to the wonders of technology, he was able to lounge on the sofa in the comfort of his own home, watching a carefully edited selection of movie greats parade before him, remembering his youth.

Hawkeye zoned out as the clips continued to run, put his worries from his mind and lost himself in the ludicrous melodrama of other peoples' problems.

 _Gone with the Wind_ won the number one spot on this particular show. It wasn't exactly Hawkeye's favourite movie, but it was a great way to appreciate the colour television. But as much as he was trying to escape into fiction, Scarlett O'Hara's final words of "Where do I go? What do I do?" got him right in the gut in a way they never had before.

"Thanks a bunch, Vivienne!" Hawkeye sulked, thumped his cushion, and shifted on the sunken couch.

Oh, how envious he felt of Rhett in those iconic closing moments! When Clark Gable spoke his infamous parting words to his erstwhile wife, Hawkeye had felt a lump form in his throat. These things much be far easier, he thought, if you _didn't_ give a damn. Walking away from someone you didn't care about seemed so simple, and even being left seemed halfway tolerable if you knew there were no feelings that remained. Hawkeye had never known a breakup so clean. Not in real life.

The scene played out in all its technicolour glory, and the show ended. Trapper stayed out. Hawkeye waited, now feeling even more melancholy than he did before. The commercials started up, but Hawkeye's thoughts raced on, and now, at last, tears began to sting his eyes once more as he sat picking at the upholstery and sucking his thumb.

A startlingly loud thud at the front door made him look up. Was Trapper home? Had he forgotten his key?

By the second thud, he was on his feet. Trapper hadn't forgotten his key. Besides, that wasn't a knock… That was something else.

Panic rushed through his system as he realised he had only a few seconds to react.

'React' was a very poor word for this. He had no gut instinct telling him what to do – he just had to make a decision, utterly uninformed.

He chose to bolt. A quick weighing up of furniture and hiding places told him Trapper's room was the best option. Then another bang of a boot hitting wood echoed through the apartment, and Hawkeye ran. The TV was still on, and he wondered for one fleeting second if he should have switched it off, but it was too late to go back. Another three solid kicks rung out in quick succession as he dashed into the spare bedroom, and then, with a crash, the front door flew open and hit the sideboard.

He was no longer alone.

Backing deeper into the room, shaking, he heard footsteps in the apartment. Sounded like three or maybe four people. It was too late to close the door – they would hear him. Nor was there any chance of fighting his way past or sneaking out, either. His heart pounding, he tried the window a few times, then remembered that this one didn't open.

"Goddamnit!"

He could kick himself! He should have run the other way! His own bedroom window opened directly onto the fire escape. Furious, he tore at his hair, turning in circles as he tried to think what to do.

There was nothing he could do. He could only hide and hope for the best.

His breath caught in his chest and his hands were trembling as he sank into the corner behind the spare bed, curling up in a ball with his back to the nightstand and hugging his knees to his chest. In the room next door, he could hear voices.

"They ain't here."

"Don't talk shit. The TV's on."

There was a loud crash, and NBC went silent. "Now it ain't." Hawkeye's heart jolted, and leapt into his throat, but he kept quiet.

"Go take a look around. Old man Jenkins promised an extra five bucks if we mess somebody up."

Hawkeye shuddered and pressed himself into his corner, hoping he could disappear. His head was swimming. This couldn't be real!

"This is dumb," one of the others announced in a slightly younger voice. "Who are these guys anyway?"

"Couple of fairies who got up Joe's nose? Who pays you to ask questions anyhow? Now _git_!"

The footsteps spread out through the apartment, and the crashes followed them. Hawkeye winced. His heart felt like it was about to fly right out of his ribcage. Curling up even smaller, he pressed his cheek against the bedspread that was draped over the tiny bed, praying he would be invisible if anybody was to peer through the doorway. The yellow candlewick he had toyed with in his childhood was oddly comforting, bringing back long-buried memories of evenings spent at his grandmother's, listening to bedtime stories about giant mythical lobsters. And, for one strange moment of tranquillity, he felt comforted. As silent tears sprang to his eyes, he wrapped his hand around the edge of the bedspread, and held it like a comfort blanket as a group of strangers ransacked his home and heavy footfalls crashed up and down the living room.

Then the footsteps headed in his direction and he nearly cried out.

There was nowhere else to hide. He pressed himself right down into the tiny gap between the bed and the wall.

"No… oh God, no…" He heard himself whispering as if in a prayer, and bit back the words. He squeezed his eyes closed, his thoughts racing, playing out a hundred vile, bloody scenarios in which he was beaten and left for dead. Or worse. He didn't even know what they would do, how far they would go. Were they armed? Were they capable of murder? Would Trapper come home to apologise and find him lying dead on the bedroom floor? Would they dump his body in the river and leave Trapper wondering what had happened? He'd never even look for him! He'd just assume he'd _left without a word_ … He would move on, and Hawkeye's father would _never know what had happened to him_!

It didn't bear thinking about.

The footsteps drew closer. Then, he heard the intruder divert off to search the bathroom. He relaxed for just a second, but he knew he'd be back soon.

There was a crash, which was obviously the mirror smashing, followed by the sound of breaking bottles.

' _There goes the aftershave_.' The thought was almost funny, and it floated across his mind quite uninvited.

This was crazy! He was half expecting to wake up any second now! Only he knew that wasn't going to happen. This was real and it was dangerous, and they were heading his way. Their next stop would doubtlessly be this very room. Frantic, Hawkeye glanced about himself for a better hiding place.

There was only one option: a gap of about eight inches between the bed and the floor. Trembling, Hawkeye pressed himself flat against the carpet, braced himself against the wall, and began to squeeze underneath. The gap was tight, and he had to contort his body this way and that, pressing one hand and foot hard against the wall in order to push through. As he fought, he was certain someone would hear him panting! The wood scraped painfully on his face and chest, splinters tore at his skin, and his knee caught painfully on the sharp edge. He almost cried out in pain. Inch by painful inch, pushing hard against the wall with his legs shaking, and the wooden beam compressing his ribcage, Hawkeye managed to ease himself into the gap.

At last, he was hidden. It was hideously dark and dusty, and he stared up at the wooden slats only an inch away from his face.

Panic set in immediately. The hot breath he exhaled began to fill the space. The air seemed to go stale and his throat burned and he had to fight the urge to crawl back out again; to throw himself upon the mercy of his intruders as long as he didn't have to stay in that cramped little space. A sob caught in his throat. He moved to press his hands against his mouth, only to discover he had no room to move. That only made him feel ten times worse, and he closed his eyes and tried to keep his panic under control.

Then, suddenly, there were footsteps in the room, and he froze. Opening his eyes again, he watched as a pair of feet made their way around the outside of the bed. They were small, and he realised with horror that this particular trespasser couldn't be more than a teenager, if that.

"I told you," the small, childlike voice rang out. "There's nobody home."

Hawkeye almost breathed a sigh of relief. Then there was a loud crash from somewhere above him. He jumped, startled and shaken, and a tiny squeak escaped him. He bit his tongue, squeezing his eyes closed and praying he couldn't be heard.

The kid left the room, and he heard the group gather in the living room again. "There's an open window over the fire escape," one of them said. "Whoever was here must've gone."

"Damn it! Okay, boys, let's get to it."

Another agonisingly loud series of crashes followed, directly overhead this time. Wincing, Hawkeye screwed his eyes closed. He hadn't felt this terrified since he'd been shelled! He knew on some level it was irrational – that the crashing and banging wasn't about to hurt him – but this was his _home_. His things – his and Trapper's – and every blow felt deeply, horribly personal. A litany of "please leave… please leave" fell from his lips, almost silent, the rhythm a much needed distraction from his situation. He was shaking uncontrollably, sweating profusely in his claustrophobic little hiding place. Somewhere along the way – he wasn't sure when – he'd switched to "get out… get out", and, alarmingly, he could _hear_ himself! For one terrifying moment, he thought he must be shouting! But it was only then that he noticed: the noise quietened down, and the only sound in the apartment was his pained, raw whisper. They had gone.

He waited in silence for as long as he could bear – until he was absolutely certain it was safe – then he cautiously squirmed his way back towards the way he had come, scooting over the carpet inch by inch, and pressing himself into the painfully tight gap.

Only, now… he couldn't get out. His hands and feet slid uselessly across the cheap carpet as he fought to push himself back through the tiny space. How did he get in here in the first place? Then he remembered – he'd pushed off the wall to squeeze under the frame, and now he had no purchase. There was nothing to brace against. He was stuck!

"No!"

He pushed at the frame with all his strength, clawed at the carpet, beat against the slats with his fists. But nothing would budge.

"It's okay!" The words felt foolish and empty, a useless platitude in the face of a wave of terror he was already half drowning in. "I'll just wait here… until Trapper gets back. However long that is. It doesn't matter. I'll just… wait. In this… tiny… coffin-sized space… and imagine what it's like to be buried alive. Probably not all that unlike this!" He glanced about himself, already painfully aware that his breathing was too shallow, too quick. "Come on now. You'll be fine… you'll be fine." He wanted desperately to scream for help, but he knew well enough nobody would come. Screwing his eyes closed, he fought to keep his claustrophobia under control.

His phobia paid no attention to him, and, slowly, he succumbed to panic.

* * *

Trapper stayed out for some time. He felt calmer as soon as he left the building – as soon as he was away from Hawkeye and their jeering neighbours – but that didn't serve to aid his guilt and self-loathing. Was this really what they were reduced to? Living their lives out of a cramped apartment, waiting for the neighbours to come banging on the door with pitchforks, and barely able to say a word to one another without attacking each other?

No, without him attacking Hawkeye. The more he'd thought on it, the more he'd reached the sorry conclusion that the responsibility was his burden. He alone had sabotaged this relationship, and he didn't even have the courage to explain _why_.

And so, he'd paced the streets, anxious and angry and cursing himself. He'd tried to resist, but after a while the temptation of the local bars was too great. The last of the grocery money was burning a hole in his pocket, and soon enough he had found himself sat in a booth nursing a whiskey, trying to drown his worries over the dreadful situation he had gotten himself into. Another hour passed. Trapper ordered another whiskey and retreated to a corner of the bar.

He felt for all the world like a condemned man, waiting for the axe to fall. Too scared to go home because he knew what was coming. And he realised with awful clarity that he wasn't even shocked anymore. Hell, maybe it was for the best.

The thought made him pause, his drink halfway to his lips. Had he really just decided that it was over? Was this it? Even if Hawkeye _didn't_ toss him out later today? Was there even any hope here, or should he just… walk away? From the man who had been the cornerstone of his life for ten years? It seemed too simple, too easy. Was that how these decisions were made in relationships not cemented in law? No court, no judge, no negotiation.

It really was that simple. If that was indeed what he wanted to do, there was nothing stopping him. And, in that moment, he felt painfully aware of how clear the solution really was.

He was also vaguely aware that he wasn't alone any more.

The woman who slipped into the seat beside him did so uninvited. She, too, seemed to be on her fourth drink or so, which slopped over the side of the glass as she shimmied closer.

"Rough night, huh?"

Trapper didn't answer her question. It wasn't like he could bare his soul to her even if he wanted to.

"What's the matter? Wife mad at you?"

Trapper snorted; saw her gaze flicker to the wedding band on his left hand. "Somethin' like that."

She laughed. "You know, I don't know why we bother!" Sipping her drink, she leaned closer, fixing Trapper with a playful look. "Lemme ask you, if your wife asked you to run one simple errand while she was out at work…"

Her story was familiar, but Trapper was too caught up in his own misery to console anyone else in theirs. Even so, the company was… nice. And pleasant to look at, too. Not exactly what he would have called 'his type' in the days before he stumbled into a decade long attempt at homosexual co-habitation and social exile, but… he liked her. Short black hair all fluffed up. Tall, with long limbs and elegant hands. Talkative. ' _Oh, for a simpler life_ ,' he thought. "It'd be nice…" he murmured into his drink.

"What was that?"

He hadn't noticed he'd spoken out loud, and shook his head. "Doesn't matter. What's your name, honey?"

She smiled a broad, friendly smile that made her eyes crinkle. "Cecilia."

"John," he said. Because he didn't want to be Trapper tonight. 'Trapper' was synonymous with some other life – the duo of Hawkeye and Trapper, infamous and inseparable – and that person didn't chat up girls. Not anymore. 'John' was what Louise had called him. Safe, sensible Louise, soft and feminine and _acceptable_. She'd called him John, and Trapper desperately wanted to be him again.

He shook her hand, and it sealed his fate. It was warm, as was her conversation. Full of life and vibrancy, although Trapper didn't hear the words. And a few minutes later, after some further conversation, he found her lips were warm, too. She tasted of cigarettes and of whatever that stuff was that she was drinking. Trapper wasn't entirely sure if he liked it, but it was pleasantly familiar and yet different all at once. Like when you catch a whiff of a scent from your childhood and struggle to place it. His hands snaked around her waist, small and delicate with soft curves that Trapper remembered enjoying so many years ago. How easy it would be, he thought, to fall back into bed with a woman. To not have to deal with the tide of self-loathing any more. The guilt of adultery was almost an easy price to pay, just to feel normal again.

When he pulled away, it felt like waking from a dream.

"Buy me a drink, handsome?"

"Sure thing…" Trapper fumbled his wallet out of his pocket, a little over-eager, and stumbled to the bar. As the bartender was serving somebody else, Trapper opened his wallet.

It was empty. Having spent the last of the grocery budget, Trapper now found himself looking at two small photographs, scruffy and dog-eared from being carried around for two years: the pictures he'd received for Christmas a few years ago, one of Hawkeye, and one of Kathy and Becky.

The one of his girls was a drugstore copy of a formal, school photograph: the one sent to him in Korea the year he was away. It was posed and pretentious, with the girls sitting mock-studiously at a desk, with books open in front of them. There were more on the walls at home, but he had no copies of those, and the originals were too precious to carry around where somebody might steal them. They were all he had now…

He'd taken the picture of Hawkeye on the beach in Maine, using Daniel's camera. Hawkeye was crouched on the rocks, muddy hands dipping into the water, prodding at the crabs and minnows like a child. He'd looked up and smiled at Trapper – not for the camera – as Trapper had taken the shot. It was a genuine, candid smile, and Hawkeye looked beautiful. He hadn't looked at him that way in over a year.

He looked at the photographs side by side, his heart heavy. He'd lost his girls because he'd fallen for Hawkeye, and now he was about to lose Hawkeye, too. He couldn't see any other way out. The world was against them, and the anger he felt rising up inside him every time he tried to face what he was, who he was, was tearing him up, and it would take Hawkeye with it, if it had half a chance.

One glimpse, and that was enough.

Suddenly more sober than he had been half a minute ago, he froze. He couldn't do this. He'd already crossed one line. He and Hawkeye were hovering on the brink. Maybe they were doomed, but did he really want to pour salt into the wounds by _cheating_? It was too much.

As if in a daze, he shoved his wallet back in his pocket and turned away from the bar, returning to the table empty handed, save for the dog-eared photograph he was still clutching.

"You know what? I'm cleaned out. I really can't."

"Oh. Well, I got some cash on me. I don't mind…"

"No, honey, please. I couldn't – not if I can't return the favour." He fumbled the picture back into his jacket pocket, and stumbled towards the door, jarring his knee painfully against the table. He was trembling! "I'd really better go. Have a nice night."

Her protestations melted into the din as Trapper dashed out of the bar. He didn't finish his drink.


	6. The Evacuation

The air outside was strange and stifling. For the first time in weeks, the evening sun was blotted out by huge storm clouds, looming over the city, blue-grey and ominous. Trapper hurried home. It didn't feel like the kind of evening one wished to be out in. Before, he would have stuck around in the bar, blaming it on the weather, but that was the last place he wanted to be right now. A strange compulsion drew him homeward, a sense of urgency in every stride, a strange, jittery feeling in his bones. He dashed through street after crowded street, more sober than he had felt in a long time.

Their run-down apartment building looked like a sanctuary, and he quickened his pace as the wind began to pick up, taking the edge off the oppressive heat that had lingered over the city these past few weeks. Trapper reached the front door, and dashed inside. He had no idea what he planned to say to Hawkeye, or what he wanted to do, but he just wanted to _see_ him. He'd work out the rest later.

He dashed up the stairs two at a time, finding the corridor mercifully empty. "Thank God," he breathed aloud, heading for their apartment.

Then he stopped.

The door to their home, still freshly graffitied, hung open. One of the hinges had been ripped from the frame entirely, and the black-painted wood was split, revealing the raw, orange splinters beneath. It was almost grotesque, like gazing into a fresh wound.

Panic gripped Trapper's innards, and he pushed his way into the apartment. The sight that met him made his stomach lurch: the place looked like a bomb had gone off. The coffee table he had kicked over was now broken; the kitchen cabinets flung open and the crockery smashed on the floor; the television screen cracked. It was alarmingly, chillingly calculated. Anything made of glass or ceramics had been targeted. The light fittings, mirrors, even the pictures on the walls had been knocked to the floor, their frames shattered. Paperwork was strewn across the carpet, drawers had been upended.

Trapper's breath caught in his throat. He was bereft of all words.

Save one.

"Hawkeye?!"

The apartment be damned – the only thing he cared about was whether Hawkeye was safe. He yelled his name again, racing through the apartment, checking every closet and every corner. Hawkeye's room was empty, as was the bathroom.

At last, he heard a familiar voice.

"Trapper!"

Hawkeye's voice sounded more like a sob, and Trapper followed it to the spare room, relief flooding through him. Only… he couldn't see him. "Hawkeye?"

Under the bed, Hawkeye kicked frantically at the frame. "Get me outta here! Get it off!"

With almost inhuman strength, Trapper grasped the bed frame and tipped it, damned near throwing it across the room. Hawkeye was lying on the floor, clutching the yellow bedspread with bloodstained fingers. He gasped for breath, contorting and arching in a way that looked almost painful as he struggled to fill his lungs. Trapper instinctively dropped to his knees beside him, but Hawkeye scrambled away from him, pressing himself into a corner by the nightstand, sobbing, his hands twisting into inhuman, grasping claws as he battled the invisible demon of his own psyche.

"Can't breathe… I tried to… Couldn't get out… Can't breathe…" A hand clenched into a fist, and he struck it against the floor, sobbing, gasping. "Goddamnit!" Forcing himself to talk had done him no favours. His wracked breathing deteriorated into hyperventilating gasps once more.

It was only now that Trapper remembered his claustrophobia. He'd only ever seen Hawkeye have one panic attack before – when they got stuck in traffic in the tunnel under the river – and it wasn't this bad. His instinct to gather him in his arms and hug him, but he knew that was the worst thing he could do. Instead, Trapper shuffled a little closer and placed a gentle, comforting hand on Hawkeye's arm. "Easy. Easy."

Hawkeye didn't respond. He took a deep, rasping breath, his whole body seeming to rise with the sheer force of it. The exhalation that followed brought with it a distraught whining sound as he fought the adrenaline coursing through his system. His eyes were wide, rolling upwards towards the ceiling, exposing an almost unnatural amount of white. It was horrific to watch!

But, gradually, Hawkeye began to calm down.

"Take all the time you need. Just breathe. Take a big ol' lungful of air and let it work its magic. You'll be ok. Everythin's alright."

His words were a soft whisper. Trapper was no shrink, but, at last, it seemed to do the trick. After a great deal of coaxing, Hawkeye rested his head against the wall as his panic subsided and his breathing returned to normal. Gently, Trapper took his hand, noticing his bloodied knuckles. Had Hawkeye been attacked? Was this from fighting back?

"What did they do to you?" he asked, cradling his hand.

Hawkeye shook his head. "Nothing…" he gasped between deep, steady breaths. "Didn't find me… I hid… Couldn't get out."

"You did this… to yourself?" Trapper realised with horror that Hawkeye's knuckles and fingers were bloody from punching and clawing at the bedframe. He didn't know if that was better or worse… "Jesus! How long were you under there?"

Hawkeye blinked and shook his head, trying to get his bearings. He stared, dazed and confused, at the clock on the wall. "Not sure. A couple of hours? Maybe three?"

"Oh my god…"

"Yeah… If I'd know it was gonna be that long, I'd have… taken something to read… or a crossword puzzle…"

"Okay…" Trapper managed a smile – if Hawkeye was cracking jokes, he was approaching his usual self. Gently, he patted his wounded hand as Hawkeye struggled to calm himself.

Hawkeye jerked his hand away, a painful indication that he was beginning to come to his senses.

Trapper swallowed. "Hawkeye… I'm sorry. I should'a been here. I should'a protected you."

Still exhausted, still traumatised, Hawkeye fixed him with a glare. "I never asked for you to _protect_ me. What makes you think I want your _protection_?"

Cowed, Trapper took the hint, and moved back, putting some space between him and Hawkeye. He wanted desperately to hold him, but… no, Hawkeye had made it clear he didn't want that. Theirs was not an intimate relationship – not anymore. There was too much distance, too much animosity. To get so close, even to comfort, him, felt like taking advantage. And he'd already done so much damage…

The guilt that had weighed heavy on him these past few days suddenly seemed unbearable, and as Trapper watched Hawkeye battle his fear, refusing any further comfort than a few whispered words, it seemed to shove all his rage and insecurity into focus. What had he been _thinking_? How could he hurt Hawkeye when perfect strangers were lining up on their doorstep to do it for him? How could he justify his anger when all he ever seemed to do was take it out on the man he loved? He could make as much noise as he could about wanting to 'protect' Hawkeye from others, dress up his fear of exposure as concerns over their safety, but he knew damned well who Hawkeye had been the most afraid of when he'd sent him packing from the apartment earlier that afternoon.

He realised with awful clarity that he could have come home to a corpse tonight. What good would his apologies have done then?

Pushing aside the awful mental image of Hawkeye lying bloodstained and motionless in the wreckage of their home, he gave him a gentle tug. "I think we'd better get outta here."

Hawkeye stared at him, his eyes glassy with exhaustion. "What?"

"We gotta pack some things an' get to a motel – and fast."

"No! Trapper… no. No, it's not a good time..."

Hawkeye wasn't making sense. Trapped crouched beside him once more, his voice firm but worried. "Hawk – what if they come back?"

As Trapper persuaded him to his feet, Hawkeye was still resisting.

"Come _on_ , Hawk! We need to move!"

Trapper pulled at him, and Hawkeye pulled back. "I can't! This isn't–"

"If they come back, they could _kill_ us. I ain't exactly keen on dyin'! Now, can we _please_ get outta here?"

Hawkeye sighed. Admitting defeat, he pulled his bedspread around his shoulders and reluctantly followed Trapper, tiptoeing through splintered wood and broken glass.

The sight of the sitting room made him gasp. He'd heard them trashing the place as he'd lain under the bed trying to block is ears to the sounds of it, but the sight was a whole other ballgame. His face creased. Silently, he walked through the debris, running his hands over the surfaces. His fingertips ghosted across the glossy wooden cabinet of the broken television, but settled on the cracked ceramic bowl that had once sat on top, now shattered and lying in pieces on the rug. It was nothing special in design – just a pot to keep the keys and loose change – but Hawkeye frowned. "My mother made this…" He picked up the pieces, cradling them, gazing about himself with tears in his eyes, but a look of fury on his face. "Bastards!" he hissed, shuddering, his fingers tightening around the broken pot. " _Bastards_!"

Trapper's heart broke as he watched Hawkeye glancing about himself, lost and trembling.

Hawkeye caught him staring and his distraught expression turned to one of resentment. "Still want to tell me how this is all my fault?"

Trapper winced. "This ain't your fault, Hawk."

"Oh." Hawkeye gave a slightly surprised nod. "Well, that's nice. It's good of you to finally get that."

The sarcasm was unmistakeable, but Trapper had no interest in rising to it. "Come on, Hawk." He snatched up a box from the ever-present supply in the spare room. "You can cuss 'em out later. We gotta get movin'."

Trapper packed with all the swiftness you'd expect from someone who'd had to evacuate a home on a semi-regular basis. Important paperwork was kept in one place, so all their documents, records and ID could be grabbed in one motion. As it transpired on this particular day, that place – the sideboard drawer – had been upended all over the floor, but Trapper sifted through quickly enough. Hawkeye seemed to still be in shock, hesitating in the face of the mess, so Trapper moved around him and began going through the debris for all the vitals. As he did, he noticed something was up. "Your stuff is gone." It was nothing more than a surprised observation at first, but even as he uttered the words, the meaning of his discovery dawned on him.

His heart sinking, he glanced up at Hawkeye.

Without a word, Hawkeye moved away. His eyes downcast and his mouth drawn into a worried, almost apologetic frown, he retrieved the case he had packed sometime earlier, during a wholly different crisis only a few short hours ago. Placing it on the coffee table, he winced as he unsnapped the fastenings with his wounded fingers. Then, he flipped it open, and it was Trapper's turn to wince.

Trapper had no comment to make. The implications of this were more than apparent. Suddenly, they were caught in an awful limbo, unable to have the awful conversation that needed to be had, but unable to ignore the testimony to Hawkeye's intention that lay between them in the debris of their lives.

His heart sinking into his gut, Trapper stared at Hawkeye open-mouthed, tears stinging his eyes. "So, uh… this means what I think it means, right?" The words fell from his mouth with an air of total acquiescence. He had no protest to offer, because he knew he had no right to one. He'd brought this about, him and his lousy temper.

Hawkeye gave a weak shrug, his shoulders heaving under the yellow candlewick. He was too run down for this. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, not any of it. Now was supposed to be the time for closure and goodbyes, not scrambling together their valuables and making for a safe haven. Why could _nothing_ go right?

Suddenly, Trapper hesitated, and he had no idea what to do. Dragging Hawkeye to a motel was hardly the answer when Hawkeye already had one foot out the door! "Where do you wanna go?" he asked, feeling faintly nauseous. "What do you wanna do?"

Staring at the suitcase, Hawkeye licked his lips. "We take a rain check," he murmured, giving what could approximately be described as a decisive nod. "We get out, get to a motel. I'll work it out from there."

And that was that. With a dismissive wave of a hand, Hawkeye turned away. Unspoken, was the clear message that he would leave in the morning. Silently, he slipped through to the bedroom to search for his last few possessions. Trapper didn't insult him by arguing. Wordlessly, he simply placed his paperwork in his own box, then followed Hawkeye morosely into the bedroom – and stopped dead when he caught sight of his reflection in the broken wardrobe mirror.

"Oh – shit…"

There was lipstick smeared around his mouth from his encounter in the bar. Bright, reddish-pink, and unmistakable in its origin. He stared, kicking himself, and wiping his face on the back of his hand.

Beside him, Hawkeye sniffed. "Yeah, I was wondering when you were gonna notice that."

"Hawkeye…"

But Hawkeye held up a firm if bloodied hand. " _Don't._ Not now. Can I just deal with _one_ personal tragedy at a time, please?!" He extracted his copy of ' _Last of the Mohicans_ ' out from the rumpled mess of bedding. "You can tell me how sorry you are later." He tilted his head towards the shared dresser. "You've still got some stuff in there – and you should check the nightstand on your side of the bed, too."

Without allowing Trapper a chance to explain, he left the room.

They moved through the apartment with practised ease. Hawkeye retrieved a couple more boxes and cases and began to fill them, painfully aware of how much stuff he could inevitably leaving with Trapper. Trapper sorted through his bedroom, salvaging photographs and sentimental knick-knacks and various other valuables. The closet was blocked by the upended bed, and, with a grunt, Trapper hauled it clear. As he did, there was a thud and a crash. He looked down to see a large picture frame on the floor: a collage he'd made of some of his photographs of Kathy and Becky, now smashed and lying on the carpet.

"No…"

Trapper sank to his knees, picking at the shattered glass to salvage the precious photos, hissing as he sliced his index finger, and a few drops of blood spilled onto one of the pictures.

"What is it?" Hawkeye appeared at his side, clutching a half filled box.

"Those sons of bitches…" Trapper muttered, his voice cracking a little.

Gently, Hawkeye moved his hands away from the broken glass, upended the frame and took the back out. Silently, he and Trapper removed the photographs and tucked them away in Trapper's wallet where they would be safe. Trapper's clothes were emptied out of the closet, along with his shaving kit and toothbrush. Soon, they found themselves standing with all their salvageable possessions packed up, in the middle of the wreckage of their home.

It wasn't an unusual scenario, but never before had the end been so explosive, so damaging, so appallingly timed. Any other occasion such as this, Trapper would have held Hawkeye in his arms and told him it would all be okay. Only, this time, they stood in silence, side by side, a good couple of feet between them. Outside there was a distant rumble of thunder, and lightning flashed across the sky.

Seeking to break the awkward silence, Trapper checked his watch. "Twenty-seven minutes," he announced. "That's uh… pretty good, given that we're outta practice."

Hawkeye glanced around sullenly. "You know, I _liked_ this place. It was the first decent apartment we've had in years. Our own bathroom, wallpaper that stayed up, and the only fungus was you and your athlete's foot! It was alright here!"

Trapper gave him a sad smile. "Yeah, but the neighbours were assholes."

"The neighbours are _always_ assholes. I'm convinced there's not a single, decent neighbour in the entire of Massachusetts. You expect too much of people, that's your trouble. I know I do…" Trapper felt the barb in his words acutely, but said nothing as Hawkeye began to ferry their things out to the elevator.

It only took a few trips, but, as they stood and waited for the decades-old machinery to coax the elevator up to their floor, the rumble of its approach drew the attention of the neighbours. A couple of doors opened onto the corridor. Nobody spoke, but a handful of people peered out at them, glowering and unkindly.

Trapper ignored them, but Hawkeye was too twitchy for brave faces, still tense from his imprisonment under the bed. All that energy had to go somewhere, and Trapper could recognise Hawkeye's 'gearing up for a soapbox moment' face anywhere. On this occasion, he didn't see the point in stopping him. They were already exposed, already on the way out, and they would never be seeing any of these people again.

Then why did Trapper still feel so desperately afraid of whatever Hawkeye might say?

The elevator continued to take its sweet, time, so Hawkeye turned to address their audience. "Oh, hello! Come to see us off, have you? Yes, that's right – we're _going_! Are you _happy_ now? Can you sleep soundly in your beds tonight knowing we're not sullying the sanctity of your community? You can tell the old man downstairs to give his mercenaries a nice fat tip, because they got the job done!"

"Mercenaries?"

Hawkeye turned. Joe Jenkins was making his slow, wheezing way up the staircase, a six pack of beer clutched in one hand. Hawkeye scowled at him. "Yeah, the kids you paid to trash our place! With an extra five bucks thrown in if they 'roughed us up' too! You in the habit of sending _children_ to do your dirty work?"

Jenkins glared right back, thought for a moment, then replied, "Doesn't sound familiar. Guess you just ticked off the wrong people, boy."

Hawkeye made a sound of utter disgust. "I know what I heard!"

Trapper slammed the elevator button again. He wanted out before this conversation turned nasty. He could practically _feel_ Hawkeye's hackles rising.

"They the same bunch you sent after the Johnsons in 2B?" Even as he heard the words, Trapper was almost surprised to hear himself speak.

Jenkins shrugged. "I don't know nothin' about that."

"Yeah, well I think you do!" Trapper felt bolder now, and he fixed the man with a cold, hard stare. "I think you got a bunch of lackies helpin' you run this place like your own personal restricted neighbourhood."

"Think what you like," Jenkins spat. "But get this through your thick head! We don't want your kind in here! You're a _disease_ , and you're not welcome. You get me?"

Hawkeye bristled. "You son of a bitch! We did _nothing_ to you! Not to _any_ of you! And all of you just stood by and…" His voice cracked. This was despair, not anger, and Trapper had to pull him away. He didn't want these assholes to see Hawkeye cry! He wouldn't give them the pleasure! It was an innocent gesture, but a bold one, given their audience, and Trapper's heart pounded. His blood rushed in his ears. His hands shook. He heard the snort of disapproval from Jenkins, but didn't let go until the elevator arrived and he could usher Hawkeye inside.

Now, Hawkeye shrugged him away, and Trapper removed his hands hastily.

He loaded their things up – box by box, case by case – under the watchful eyes of several neighbours, and pulled the gate closed. Gradually, some of them the bystanders in the hall lost interest, some retreating into their apartments, but a few remained, as if to ensure that the unwelcome residents had well and truly gone. Hawkeye hit the switch on the elevator, and glared, unwaveringly, through the bars at their audience as they began the long, rattling descent to street level.

* * *

By the time they reached their destination, the rain was hammering down on the windscreen so fast that the wipers couldn't keep up. The cheapest motel in town was, in fact, barely in town at all. It was situated on Route One halfway to Salem, and really had seen better days. But it had been their bolt-hole on a previous occasion, and the manager didn't ask too many questions. Hawkeye squinted through the cascade of water with a heavy heart. The neon sign was glowing like a beacon in the darkness.

He leaned back heavily in his seat, exhausted.

"You okay?"

Trapper's question caught him off guard. Neither one of them had really been in a fit state to drive, with Trapper over the limit, and Hawkeye still jittery and shaken, but Hawkeye's affliction was less likely to land them with a fine, so he'd taken the wheel.

"I'm fine," he fibbed, listening to the rattle of the rain and trying to find some tranquillity in it.

Trapper sat beside him. The car was silent save for the rain and the rhythmic ' _swish_ ' of the wiper blades. It was a painful, dreadful quiet. "So," Trapper tried, his voice cracking, "what happens now?"

Hawkeye didn't look at him. He just continued to stare out into the storm, watching the water run off the roof of the squat, grey little motel with its ugly pastel signage and tacky pink and blue lighting. He let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze tracing the silhouette of the miserable little building. "Game's called on account of rain," he said at last. "I'll stay here tonight."

Trapper almost expected a burst of optimism at those words, but none came. There was no hope in Hawkeye's decision here. He knew where he stood. "Right."

"Could you do the honours though? I don't think I can face it."

He thumbed in the direction of the office and handed Trapper a wad of bills.

"Here. Try not to fall into a bottle between here and the front desk."

"I'll be as quick as I can."

"I'll wait here and powder my nose."

The line was delivered without a hint of humour. Trapper didn't laugh. Hawkeye didn't expect him to. They'd been through this charade before in this motel and others. One of them would check them in, under one name only, while the other one hid out of sight and snuck in later. It was an awkward situation, and one Hawkeye had made light of the first few times: " _I'll be Mary_ ," he'd say, tossing his hair when he agreed to wait in the car, but the joke had long since worn thin, and Hawkeye's words were now spoken with little more than bitter cynicism.

There was no 'Mary' tonight. No camp playfulness to take the edge off the dangerous situation they were living with day by day. There was just him and Trapper, distant and awkward around one another, and all their copious baggage crammed into the aging Oldsmobile, emotional and otherwise. Trapper hesitated. "Should I get one room or two?"

He expected Hawkeye to have to think long and hard on that, but he couldn't have been more wrong. The answer "One is fine," was muttered back at him without thought.

Relieved, Trapper gave a nervous laugh. "You're still speakin' to me, then?"

And Hawkeye looked up at him. His eyes were cold, his jaw firm, and there was a look of determination on his face that chilled Trapper to the very core. "Oh, yeah. There are quite a few things I would like to say to you. I had a lot of time to _think_ , stuck under that bed, trying and failing to stop myself going crazy, and I promise, I'm not gonna hold back."

And Trapper shuddered. He didn't much care to have this conversation in the car. Shrinking away, he wrapped his hand around their motel money and ducked out into the rain, already starting to shake at what lay ahead.

Hawkeye took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He was left alone, and Trapper sprinted through the rain, his jacket hitched up over his head. Hawkeye watched him vanish into the reception, staring out of the windscreen as if in a trance. He was exhausted, and yet the anxiety of his earlier episode had yet to abate. It was strange – he knew so much about the human body and it's functions, and yet he really couldn't explain how just the right levels of misplaced adrenaline made a person feel agitated and tired all at once. Closing his eyes, he set his head back on the headrest and tried to zone out for a moment. They were safe now. That was all that mattered. He should take a moment to just… breathe in the tranquillity and the relief.

For the next few hours, he suspected, would be anything but calm.


	7. The End

Their room was everything they had anticipated for their measly amount of money. Dated, worn out, and with that perpetual feeling of grubbiness that never quite seemed to wash away in these places, despite the best efforts of housekeeping. The walls were the kind of sterile mint green that had been popular in the early-to-mid-fifties, making the space feel even colder. The twin beds in their shared room were a damning testament to the state of their relationship, each one narrow and unwelcoming, crammed into the room with a mere six inches of space between them. He had wondered initially whether even sharing a room may be pushing things, but Hawkeye had simply flung his case down, kicked his shoes off and declared that this was fine. The rain was slowing a little now, and the wind dying down, and Hawkeye stared out into the darkening night as Trapper excused himself to freshen up.

A few minutes later, he had returned from the garish, cramped little _en suite_ to find Hawkeye sitting at the tiny little table at the window, thumbing through the complimentary magazine. He looked up for a moment as Trapper towelled his face off and wiped his hands.

His stare was disconcerting, and Trapper shifted awkwardly. "I just… went to wash up."

Hawkeye blinked, then returned to his magazine. "Wasn't your colour anyway."

Trapper went cold. He'd never thought for a moment that his earlier transgression was going to escape comment. He couldn't quite believe that he'd been so careless as to turn up right in the middle of Hawkeye's ordeal with lipstick smeared across his face – damning evidence of his betrayal. "Hawk, I swear, it was just one kiss. She was a stranger, an' she started talkin' to me, an' I just…"

"You know what?" Hawkeye tossed his magazine aside, folding his arms across his chest as he frowned at Trapper's pathetic apology. "I don't care."

"No, c'mon. Lemme explain." He moved towards Hawkeye, hands outstretched, but Hawkeye turned away.

"No, I mean…" Hawkeye sighed despondently and shook his head. The confession felt like a damning verdict on just how far gone they were. They'd both known going in that neither one of them were grand masters of fidelity, and moments of suspicion and temptation had littered their relationship these past few years with growing frequency. And now, faced with evidence that the line had finally been crossed, Hawkeye was horrified to find that he felt nothing. Even a sense that maybe it was for the best; maybe Trapper would be better off with someone else – with a _woman._ "I just… don't _care_."

Trapper's blood ran cold. "You don't, huh?"

"I don't even _blame_ you. How sad is that? I know things are lousy. I _want_ to be angry! I mean, at least then it might mean there was something left, but… I'm not. What the hell does _that_ say about us?"

Trapper nodded, sinking slowly onto the bed to sit opposite Hawkeye. Suddenly, the fleeting thought that he'd had in the bar – that _he_ should leave, and let Hawkeye move on and be with someone who felt more at ease with him and could treat him the way he deserved – came back to him. Only now he found himself facing the prospect of actually _talking_ about it, of actually going their separate ways, he couldn't bear it. Now, after everything they'd been through in the last few hours, he wanted to plead with Hawkeye to stay, and beg his forgiveness.

But he didn't. Hawkeye had that distant, thoughtful look on his face that suggested he was struggling to put his thoughts into order.

Trapper threw him a line – and hoped to God he wouldn't pull on it too hard.

"Do ya really wanna leave?"

Hawkeye looked up, the quip 'but we just got here' on the tip of his tongue. Ever the joker, even in the most inappropriate of circumstances. He caught the words just in time, but no others followed to take their place. He hadn't prepared for this. He hadn't expected Trapper to be so… placid.

The silence lasted for the longest time. Hawkeye stared out of the window, chewing pensively on a hangnail. He'd trashed his hands in his efforts to escape from his hiding place under the bed, and his fingers tasted of blood.

"Did the suitcase give me away?" he said at last.

Trapper sighed, resting his head in his hands. Hawkeye's thoughts only echoed his own, but… oh, how it stung to know it had gone this far! "I… I get it, Hawk. An' I don't blame ya."

Hawkeye stared at him, a tense, uneasy smile spreading across his face. "Oh, so my plans for our imminent breakup meet with your approval! That's good to know."

Trapper baulked at Hawkeye's tone. "You _want_ me to beg you not to go?! After _everythin'_ … You want me to get down on my knees an' _plead_ with ya not to leave me?" Trapper heard his voice become hostile, felt his hackles rise, but caught himself. Suddenly cowed, he dropped his head, staring at the worn carpet. Could they not even _agree_ with one another without him picking a fight? Ashamed, he swallowed his anger. He knew well enough there was nothing he had to offer but empty promises and echoed apologies. At last, he shook his head. "I got nothin'," he said. "I don't know what to tell ya. Just that… you deserve better than a guy who smacks ya around every time he has a rough day. I got issues – I know that."

Hawkeye snorted and turned back to the window, clasping his hands together in his lap to try and stop from picking his wounds. "Yeah, you can say that again…" Something was bugging him. He knew he should be grateful of the clean, amicable breakup, and yet… there was no closure in this! There was no comfort to be found in the cold, unfeeling conclusion that Trapper had, somehow, taken a passionate, loving relationship – a relationship that had survived persecution and hardship and heartbreak – and ground it into the dirt! He had been itching for the chance to have it out with him, to hash out all his frustrations and give voice to the two years of anguish he'd been bottling up, but Trapper wasn't biting. There was still something unspoken between them, but Hawkeye didn't know how to draw it out. This new, docile, sorrowful Trapper felt alien to him!

He had expected a fight. He had planned for it! When Carlye had left him, he'd fought tooth and nail. He'd bargained, made excuses, yelled, cried, begged, and finally convinced himself she would come back. He'd spent a week sat in the apartment, barely eating, too afraid to leave in case she showed up and he wasn't home. He suspected Trapper would not be quite so melodramatic, but this quiet resignation was not anticipated.

Silence descended once more, broken only by the roar of a passing car, and the crunch of gravel under tyres. The piercing glow of headlights swept the room, and Hawkeye watched as the shadow of the blinds at the window has stark, black stripes across Trapper's face. Trapper shielded his eyes from the glow. Then, the light vanished, and the engine died. Hawkeye swallowed, licking his parched lips as he struggled to fill the unbearable silence.

"Anything else you want to say for yourself?" Hawkeye's tone was tinged with irritation.

Trapper gave a non-committal shrug. "Like what?"

"Well, _we've_ got all night! Is there _nothing_ you want to say? I mean, I could be halfway to New Hampshire by now! Instead I'm sitting in a motel room with you picking through the carcass of our relationship. _Why_? Because a bunch of hired goons drove us out before we could get together and tear ourselves apart like amiable adults?" He looked away, shaking his head. "This is just us, though, isn't it? We're so busy trying to struggle through, trying to fight against everything the world throws at us, that we don't have the time to confront the fact that _that's all we ever do_! This isn't a _relationship_ – it's just another warzone! We were happier in Korea!"

Trapper chewed sullenly on his lip. He didn't particularly want to spend their last evening together listening to Hawkeye rant about how dreadful things were! Could he not just let them go peacefully? Why did everything have to be a debate?

Hawkeye's eyes flashed, and he gestured to Trapper, his movements sharp, _angry_ rather than defeated. "Feel free to contribute at any time."

Trapper remained silent. It seemed every time he opened his mouth lately, he said something dreadful. Best to keep it shut for once.

And Hawkeye reached the painful conclusion that he had nothing to say. "So, is that it? We're finally admitting it's over and you don't even want to _explain_ to me why you saw fit to… crawl into a bottle for two years and smack me in the mouth and _ruin_ what was a _good thing_?"

He had tears in his eyes, and Trapper couldn't bear to look at him.

" _Say_ something!"

The silence seemed endless, and Trapper wrung his hands, looking at anything but Hawkeye. "Come on, Hawk. Don't do this. I don't wanna end on another fight."

"I didn't want it to end at all! I _wanted_ to give you a chance! I wanted you to pull yourself together and give me a goddamn reason to stay! But no, _you_ decided buying another case of beer and another couple of shots mattered more to you than I did! _You_ decided to flip out over seven little letters of graffiti and take it out on me instead of dealing with your anger like a rational human being! You _did this_ to us! This isn't a fight – it's a parting shot! I am… so _angry_ with you, because _you_ let this happen! And I wanna know why! So come on!"

"Come on, why've ya gotta get into this?"

"Because I've got nothing to lose! I'm not interested in sparing your feelings anymore, I just want the satisfaction of knowing what the hell went wrong! I've got one foot out the door, Trapper! You can forget making rent on the apartment because you've _got_ no apartment! I've got enough tips in my back pocket to fill up the car and get the _fuck_ out of here, and the only reason I haven't is because I'm too shaken up to drive! So you _tell_ me!" He jabbed a finger in Trapper's direction, his hands shaking. "You tell me why you gave up on us! Tell me why you let this happen!"

"I didn't give up on us, Hawk." Trapper's confession was little more than a whisper, but Hawkeye jumped like a startled rabbit.

"From where I'm sitting you gave up a long time ago."

"I know. I know what it looks like." Trapper continued to address the carpet. "But I swear to God, I didn't want this. I know I sure as hell don't give you much of a reason to stay. How I've been treatin' you lately… it's not okay. I know that – I ain't as dumb as I look."

"Then why the hell are you _acting_ like this? Why are you so _angry_ all the time? Why can't you get through a week without drinking yourself into a stupor? Is this _all_ because of the neighbours? Because of what a few assholes in the slums are calling us? Because people in the street call us names? Because of _that_ you're…?"

"No, no, it ain't that." Trapper took a deep, hiccupping breath, trying to find the words within himself. "It's because of me," he admitted at last, pressing a hand to his chest as he dragged his confession, kicking and screaming, out into the open. Unable to sit still, he got to his feet, pacing the tiny room, fighting for the words, his hands trembling and clenching as he struggled to order his racing thoughts. A lump formed in his throat as he spoke, constricting, forcing the words to come in a halting, choking gasp: "It's _all_ comin' from me. This is _my_ problem. Somethin' I've been bottlin' up inside for _years_ , an'… there ain't no way for me to talk about it without..."

Hawkeye stared at him waiting for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, Hawkeye reached his own conclusion. "You're straight. You're about to tell me you're straight. Oh, God…" A wave of nausea hit him, with guilt following hot on its heels. He'd really done it this time! He'd seduced a married heterosexual man, torn apart a family, and all for what? So he could wind up a battered husband living out of a suitcase in a motel? He was one of _those_ sexual deviants; the kind the papers warned people about; the kind of man who seduced and corrupted his way into the lives of innocents and spread chaos and misery wherever he went!

"Hawkeye, no." Trapper's protestation barely got through, and he raised his voice a little. "I'm _not_!" The words caught Hawkeye's attention. They also caught in Trapper's throat. He tried them again. "I'm not. I'm… what's the word you used?" He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the term. "That one in that goddamn journal you made me read?"

"Bisexual?"

Trapper winced at how _medical_ it all sounded. "Yeah, that! I'm… _whatever_! I'm… I'm a fuckin' _queer_ , alright?!" The words felt like a dam bursting inside him. His eyes stung. A shudder of self-revulsion passed through him. "I'm a _fuckin' queer_!" His fist hit the dresser. All of a sudden, it felt like too much to handle. He'd said it. It had taken him nine years to say it out loud, but he'd said it…

Hawkeye recoiled slightly at the sudden outburst. "Well, that's… good. Right?" He stared in silence, wishing he'd done psychology instead of surgery. He had no idea what to say or do to deal with this.

Fortunately, he didn't have to. Trapper was free-falling. The words and the feelings tumbled out of him, like the pressure of keeping it all in for a decade had built up for too long and now there was no holding back. "You see what this is doin' to me?! An' you're wonderin' why I can't talk to ya! You know what you are an' it doesn't bother you at all, an' I'm… I'm _wracked_ , Hawk! This is destroyin' me! _That's_ why it bugs me so much when people talk shit about us! It's because _I_ take it personal. It's because _I_ got a problem with what people are sayin', 'fore they even say it! I only gotta… pass somebody in the hallway an' I'm worried about what's goin' through their minds. They don't have to say a damned thing, because I'll keep playin' it over in my goddamn head like a broken old record!" He gestured angrily, hands waving with just as much agitation and feeling as the words that continued to spill from him, relentless and unstoppable. "All those words that people spit at us in the street… they just bounce right off ya. You look yourself in the mirror an' call yourself a… a queer or a fairy, an' it's like you're _proud_ or somethin'!"

"I _am_!" Hawkeye leaned forward, his eyes appealing, _pleading_ with Trapper to understand. "I'm proud of me, I'm proud of you, I'm proud of everything we've been through together! We've _fought_ for this! Fought and _suffered_! Isn't that something worth being _proud_ of?"

Trapper shook his head sadly. "Not to me. It's just what they wrote on my discharge the day they took away my career! It's what they wrote on my divorce paper! It's the reason they took away my _kids_!" He shook his head sadly, wiping at his tears with trembling hands.

"Trapper, I…"

"You're _sorry_. I know." Trapper waved a hand, his voice raising at the merest hint of the apology he had been trying for three years to avoid hearing.

"No! No, you _don't_ know, because you never let me get the goddamned words out!" Anger flared in Hawkeye's eyes as he stood to face him, nose to nose. For a moment, Trapper was stunned into silence. "I'm not saying it for _fun_ , Trapper, and I'm not saying it because I want you to… to tell me it wasn't my fault, or that it's okay and it _Louise's_ decision and nothing to do with me!"

"Well, it _ain't_ nothin' to do with–"

"Stop _lying_!" Suddenly, Hawkeye had gone from the patient understanding partner to the angry one, but it was like something had fallen into place. Something he'd struggled to come to terms with for years. If Trapper's sexuality was his burden, then this was Hawkeye's… "I _know_ you're angry with me. Maybe not like you are with _Louise_ , but hell – I'm _here_. You can _take it out_ on me! And that's _exactly_ what you've been doing! And you've been doing it for _years_!"

Trapper said nothing to contradict him, looking away, embarrassed.

"You _hit_ me, Trapper! Are you _really_ going to look me in the eye and tell me you're not angry? Because, just so you know, you haven't exactly done the greatest job of hiding it. In fact, you've pretty much come out and _said_ it when you're angry enough or drunk enough, so I'm _done_ listening to you tip-toe around this trying to spare my feelings only to… punch me in the head as soon as your temper flares. So don't play games with me anymore – tell me how you _really_ feel, because I'd rather be hurt by your _honesty_ than your fists!"

Trapper hesitated, trembling as he gazed, unsure, at Hawkeye. "You really wanna know?"

Hawkeye sat down on the bed, his back against the headboard, and, cuddling a pillow as if for protection, he gave a wave of his hand. "Hit me." He paused, and gave a shrug. "You know… figuratively speaking."

The joke had teeth, and Trapper felt its bite. He let Hawkeye have that. He had other things to be worrying about… "I guess…" Trapper sighed, trying to put his thoughts into words. At last, he gave up on caution. He'd been asked to be honest. He took a deep breath. "Yeah… _Yes_ , I'm angry with you." It felt good to say it. And, with the words, the emotion welled up too. "I mean… how _dare_ you?"

Hawkeye winced and recoiled a little, but didn't stop him. He needed this. They both did.

Trapper continued: "You knew damned well what was at stake, what I'd lose if you screwed up, but no. _You_ knew better. _You_ thought… you could _fix_ it! An' I _know_ – God knows I know – that Louise was just waitin' for a reason, an' for all we know there would'a been somethin' else in a week, or a month, however long, but… if you keepin' your mouth shut could'a bought me another day – even another hour, another _minute_ – with my girls… then so help me… _That's_ what I'm angry about. I ain't sayin' it's your fault, just that… because of you, it happened _when it did_. An' ya should'a… you should'a just _left it alone_. Ya gave her a reason, Hawk… _She_ made the call, but _you_ gave her a reason."

Hawkeye nodded, looking away, his hands shaking and his mouth suddenly dry. He felt… numb. Like he was floating somewhere just outside his body, waiting for the words to sink in so he could go on feeling. He's known for so long, in spite of Trapper's protestations otherwise, but to hear it confirmed was hard. He wavered, his hands clenching and unclenching around the pillow in his lap. "You're right. I thought I could fix everything – I _wanted_ to fix everything – and I… I screwed up." His face creased, and his voice cracked. "And I'm really sorry."

For the first time, his apology was not met with dismissal, or with half-hearted reassurance. Now, Trapper just let him speak.

"I'm sorry, Trap." The second time, the words came out as a sob. "I screwed up and I'm sorry." It felt… cleansing. Like the grief and the guilt he'd been bottling up these past few years was somehow washed away. He found himself blinking away tears, and even now, he still felt it wasn't his right to be upset – it wasn't his right to cry. Embarrassed, he turned away, his hand rising to his mouth to chew on his thumbnail. And Trapper moved closer, sitting beside him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. How strange, he found himself thinking, in spite of everything, neither one of them could bear to see the other upset without moving in to offer comfort.

"Hey?" Trapper's voice broke his trance, his hands covering Hawkeye's own. Tentative, not wanting to get too close, too intimate. "Hey?" he said again, and Hawkeye looked up this time.

"I wanted to help…"

And Trapper's heart broke. "I know. It's okay… it's okay." This time, for the first time, he meant it. He really meant it.

It was a tender moment, but Hawkeye pulled away. Trapper let him. They weren't through here yet, and he had a long way to go to regain his trust.

"So," Hawkeye muttered weakly, wiping at his face with a thin paper tissue from the box beside the bed (whose purpose and strategic placing he didn't like to think on), "and this… this thing with you… has this all come up because of the girls? Because Louise cut you off?"

Sitting on the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, Trapper wished he could give him a better answer. "It goes back a little longer than that…"

"Oh." Hawkeye's body sagged against the headboard. "Great. Well, I do love a good epic…"

"This is somethin' that's been eatin' away at the back of my mind for a while…"

Hawkeye frowned, his brow furrowing, his teeth gnawing at his lip. "How long a while are we talking here?"

"Since Korea."

"Since _Korea_?!" Hawkeye took a deep breath, trying to steady himself against whatever emotional blow was coming his way. "You really know how to hang onto a problem, you know that?"

Trapper sighed, his shoulders heaving with the weight of the world. "Truth is, at first it weren't so bad. You an' me, what we were doin', it was just… kinda _naughty_. Like foolin' around with the nurses. Like we were breakin' the rules. It was no big deal – hell it was _fun_! Doin' stuff we ain't s'posed to be doin' was… sorta our _raison d'etre_ out there, y'know?"

Hawkeye chuckled and nodded. "I remember."

"And then it got serious. More involved. More…" Trapper cringed at his wording even as he said it. "… _intimate_. An' it didn't just feel naughty anymore. It felt…"

Hawkeye's face was pained as he leaned closer. "What?"

" _Wrong_." The word was whispered like a shameful confession. "Sick. Dirty. Sinful. All those bad words that got tossed around in church when I was a kid. I got so good at ignorin' 'em because… let's face it, I was never a good Catholic, not by a long shot. I did a lotta 'wrong' stuff in my time an' it never bothered me, but with you… there was this little part of me that still felt guilty about lovin' you, no matter what I did to try an' ignore it."

And Hawkeye looked like he'd been slapped in the face. "I had no idea you felt like that."

"Well, I couldn't exactly just come out an' _say_ it, could I?" Trapper gave him a look. "I knew I would'a _lost_ you. An' God help me I didn't want that to happen. Even when we were just two guys in the army foolin' around in the dark. I _needed_ you!" Even now, Trapper's voice was thick with emotion. The memory of those passionate first few months was still potent. "I knew I was fallin' for ya, even then, an' I knew that one day… we'd go our separate ways, an' all I wanted to do was make the most of every minute I had with ya. I figured I'd…" He paused, licking his lips, almost _ashamed_ of how reckless they'd been, how he'd bottled up so much thinking it didn't really _matter_. "I figured it'd run its course an' I'd make my peace with it later."

"Right." Hawkeye's face creased with dismay as he realised the implications of Trapper's words. "Just a wartime fling, no need to get all philosophical with yourself…"

Trapper hung his head. "Exactly."

"Only later never came, did it? Because your _fling_ stuck around!"

"After we got sent Stateside, livin' in Boston… somethin' still didn't feel right." Trapper's voice was tight, his hands clenching and unclenching before him. "All these years, I kept thinkin' one day I'll wake up an'… it'll feel okay; I'll look myself in the eye an' think of myself as… as a _gay man_ or somethin', an' I'd just feel different, an' I'll let go an' move on; one day it'll get better…" His hands were shaking, and he buried his face in them for a moment. "But it _ain't got any better_! It got _worse_! An' every _rotten_ thing that happens just feels like… it's the world _punishin'_ me for lovin' ya! An' God help me, I _do_ , but…" He paused, grasping for the words as he wept openly for the first time in years. "I _hate_ myself for it, an' I guess on some level I must hate you, too! An' it ain't _you_ that's to blame for that – it's me. It's all me." He stared across the room at his reflection – when did he start looking so old? "I look at you, I feel love; I look at me, I feel disgust. At what I am, what we are, what we do in bed…"

Hawkeye's eyebrows raised a little. "You're telling me our sex life disgusts you?"

Trapper stared at him, twitching slightly under his scrutiny. "Sometimes."

Hawkeye made a face, snorted derisively and looked away. "Well, _that's_ funny – because it bores the hell out of me!"

"I'm sorry." Trapper winced, and flushed a little at his words. He wiped his face and took a moment to think. "I know I'm a selfish son of a bitch at times. I know I don't do a lotta the stuff you want, but the truth is, Hawk, what we do is… pretty much all I can stand."

"Oh…" Hawkeye withdrew, his arms folding over himself as he closed himself off further, bony elbows acting as a shield. He tried to sound blasé, but the look of hurt on his face slipped through before he could look at the floor to hide it. "Huh. Is _that_ how it is? I mean, I always knew you were an ass man but that's taking it a little too far."

Trapper flushed a little at his words, shifting on the bed and glancing away. "I thought… you got off on that."

"I _did_ , but…" Hawkeye shook his head, almost disbelieving that they were even _having_ this conversation. After ten years, how could Trapper still not know how to make love to him? How could two self-confessed Lotharios such as they wind up with such a lousy sex life? How could things have gone wrong _this badly_ without either of them addressing it? "Is that all you want?" he asked eventually, struggling to make sense of Trapper's confession. "Is that honestly all you want from me? For me to lie there while you get your rocks off and then trip off to the shower having gotten your jollies? Don't you _want_ to… to just _touch_ me once in a while? To use your hands and your lips instead of just…?" He trailed off. Even uttering the words felt almost painful – a reminder of how much he _ached_ for Trapper to show just a hint of sensuality towards him; to touch him with a sense of desire rather than begrudging duty. "Do I _repulse_ you that much?"

Trapper shook his head sadly. Still, after all these years, it was hard to put his feelings into words. He had tried so hard not to think about it for so long! For almost ten years, they had been refreshingly, dangerously reckless! Their first time was a frantic, desperate tumble in a war zone. Talking things through wasn't on the agenda when you could get shelled tomorrow! Only now, whatever Trapper had buried when his sordid little fling became a commitment, had poisoned him against his life partner. But deep down, in spite of it, he still desired him. He always had… "You don't repulse me, Hawk…" His answer was whispered towards the carpet. "Sometimes I want ya so much it scares the hell outta me. It's just…" He paused, knowing his next words would break Hawkeye's heart. "As much as I want to, I just can't… bring myself to touch you."

A shudder of distaste passed over Hawkeye's face. "Right. You'll _fuck_ me, but you won't _touch_ me. Not to mention that uncontrollable desire you have to _disinfect_ yourself after – don't think I haven't noticed. I get to do a lot of thinking while I'm lying there alone in the damp patch!"

Trapper winced. "Is it really _that_ bad?" His voice trembled a little as he put the question out there, knowing the answer might hurt.

Taking a deep breath, Hawkeye tried to find the words to tactfully explain his feelings on that matter. When none were forthcoming, he abandoned tact and voted in favour of honesty. "Trapper, you treat the prostate gland like it's ground zero, and your dick is a B-29 bomber. Frankly, I've had more sensual relationships with rectal thermometers! You make me feel like…" He paused, knowing he'd sounded harsh. His tone softened a little in light of the words he was about to utter. "… like I'm nothing but a warm carcass for you to bury yourself in."

Trapper winced. When he put it like _that_ , it really made sense, although putting it like that also turned his stomach. "I getcha. I really do. An' I know I'm bein' selfish; that I'm…" He glanced up and managed a vague twitch of a smile. "How did you put it?... 'climbin' on top an' bangin' away like a jackhammer'? It's just… that way I don't have to think about anythin', like what it all means or what it makes me. It all just comes natural, you know? Just like bein'…"

"With a woman," Hawkeye finished for him.

Trapper hung his head. "Yeah." His admission was barely more than a whisper. His shame ate away at him – shame over his sexuality, and shame over his denial. Whichever way he moved, it seemed, he couldn't get away from it.

Hawkeye sighed, and he beat his fist against his knee. "And just like that, I find I have this sudden sympathy for Louise…"

Trapper snorted, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared miserably at the carpet. "It weren't _like_ this with _Louise_ ," he confessed.

He didn't have time to rethink his words. Hawkeye recoiled, his pain, as usual, recycling itself as sarcasm as he shot Trapper a dirty look. "Oh, _that's_ reassuring!"

Hawkeye's reaction cut deep, and Trapper looked up, his face twisted in torment. "Do I hurt ya? You know, when we're…"

Hawkeye's face flickered a little and he gave an apologetic shrug. "Sometimes…"

"Christ, Hawk!" Trapper ducked his head, suddenly feeling sick. "I didn't mean it to end up like this! An' don't think for a second that I don't want ya! God help me, I think you're the most handsome devil I ever saw, an' it makes me crazy that I can't make love to ya the way ya deserve; that I can't… touch ya like I know ya wanna be touched."

"But _why not_? What's stopping you?"

"The fact that every other son of a bitch I've ever known my whole goddamned life tells me it's _wrong_! The papers, the neighbours, our court martial, people on the street! My own _goddamn father_!" Throwing himself to his feet, Trapper began to pace the tiny motel room like a caged animal, tearing at his hair, kicking at the furniture.

Agitated, Hawkeye rose to his knees, reaching out for him. But Trapper wouldn't let him near. "Who _cares_ what they say?!"

" _I do_!" Trapper thumped his fist against his chest. He dropped to his knees beside Hawkeye, lowering his voice, as if he was ashamed of his very thoughts. "When I was seven years old, my uncle got divorced. I asked if we were gonna go visit 'im, an' my dad says 'we ain't gonna see 'im no more, because he's a fag.' I didn't even know what the word meant, 'cept that it was _bad_. When I was fourteen, one of the other kids got a hard-on in the locker room… an' we fuckin' _clobbered_ him!" Trapper smacked his hand into his palm, and Hawkeye flinched. " _I_ did that, Hawk. _Me_. I didn't even understand what all those things they were yellin' meant – it's just what everyone else was doin', an' if I didn't join in, then it meant I might be one, too." He perched back on the corner of the bed, leaning in close. He was shaking. "When we met in Korea, I was outta my comfort zone, surrounded by brass knuckle heads and army jerk-offs, an' I didn't give a crap about anybody out there, save for you, an' the poor shot-up kids landin' on our operatin' tables. Out there, I could do what the hell I wanted, an' there weren't _nobody_ whose opinion was worth a damn to tell me otherwise. But back here, on my home turf, it _matters_ what people think of me. I spent my whole life tryin'a prove myself: top of the class, football scholarship, Ivy League. I was a workin' class kid from the slums makin' my way through Dartmouth! I worked my way up from the gutter to get to where I was, an' now I'm _scum_ in the eyes of society, the law… I don't need to be the most popular guy in the world, but… I used to be _respected_ , goddamn it!" He dropped his voice, knowing his anger only made Hawkeye jumpy. What came next was a pained, sorrowful whisper. "I know what people think when they see us, Hawk. I know what they call us, what they whisper between 'emselves when you an' me turn up in a building an' take out an apartment together, walk down the street, book a table in a restaurant, an' as much as I try not to, an' as much as I come across as a rebel just the same as you… yeah, I _care_. It _hurts_."

Hawkeye listened quietly, not wanting to interrupt Trapper's epiphany. He didn't know what to say as reassurance. He couldn't just… _tell_ Trapper to stop caring. He couldn't undo forty years of conditioning.

Frowning, Trapper added: "An' I get mad at you because _you don't get it_."

"But you never _told me_ …"

Trapper gave a snort of a laugh. "Hey, I _tried_. But you've been all… up in arms over gay liberation an' all that, ready to start splittin' heads."

"Oh, come on! I maybe… go off on one every now an' then!"

"Hey?" Trapper's voice was a gentle murmur. "I hear the way you talk. I've _seen_ the articles you're readin' in those magazines you keep leavin' around our place. An' I can see where you're at with all this political stuff. The way I reckon it, this time next year, you'll be marchin' on city hall."

Hawkeye gave a weak smile. "I'm flattered you think that."

"You're so far ahead o' me… how could I tell you somethin' like this? Hell, you pretty much figured it out for yourself. I'm ashamed. It's why I… lashed out at ya. But you got me! Bang on the nail. You had me all worked out. An' you were mad as hell. You thought it was pathetic. You thought _I_ was pathetic."

"I don't know what to say," Hawkeye admitted weakly. Trapper was right. Painfully right.

Sniffing, Trapper wiped his eyes. "It's okay. I guess we're just… in different places right now. An' I wish I could keep up with ya, but I just don't know how. I'm watchin' ya get further an' further away from me, an' as much as I want to hang on, I feel like I'm losin' my grip."

His words left Hawkeye reeling. He curled in on himself a little, arms wrapped around himself, thumb pressed against his lips. Maybe he _had_ been a little selfish. "I thought I was helping," he admitted. "I knew you had a problem. I just… didn't realise how bad it was. I thought…" He paused. Whatever he thought at the time, he was wrong. He'd failed to notice that while he'd been trying to push Trapper to swim, he'd been drowning right beside him the whole time.

"Got any suggestions?" Trapper asked with a humourless chuckle. "Anythin' you read in one o' them articles that might help me out?"

Hawkeye looked up at him. "I… really don't know," he admitted. "This is beyond me."

"Hawkeye, please…"

"What do you _want_ , Trapper? Do you _really_ want to fix this mess? I mean, let's say I stick around, you _know_ we're never going to make Couple of the Year in your _alma mata_ newsletter, right?"

Trapper sighed. "I know that. I guess… I just want," he thought aloud, seating himself back on the bed, "some goddamn _recognition_ for everything we've been through. I want somebody to look at us an' say: 'they're a _nice couple_.' I want some friends I can bring home, an' somebody to talk to when things get rough, an' some _respect_! I want somebody to look at _you_ , an' see you the way I see you, an' tell me what a lucky son of a bitch I am to have you." He glanced at Hawkeye and smiled. "Because I think I need remindin' from time to time."

Somewhere, deep in the depths of Hawkeye's soul, a spark of warmth began to burn again. He had to admit, somewhere in the depths of himself, in a place that remembered the affection they had once shared, it seemed like a nice thought. But it wasn't enough. "I'm sorry, I can't give you that," he admitted, ruefully. "I wish I could, but…"

Sighing, Trapper buried his head in his hands. "Yeah, I know."

"And what happens in the meantime? You keep smacking me in the mouth because we didn't get voted in as Prom King and Queen?" There was a hint of bitterness in his voice – justifiable, Trapper knew. "Keep pissing our money away behind a bar every other night so you don't have to come home and lie next to your socially unacceptable male lover and be reminded of just how straight you're not?"

"I don't know." Trapper shook his head sadly. "I don't know what I'm gonna do."

Hawkeye's expression hardened a little, and he glanced about himself, suddenly lost. This conversation had taken him in a direction he hadn't expected to go, and the night was drawing on. Sensing that they had reached a point where all the questions raised in the past hour or so needed answers, he sniffed, wiped his face, and pushed the conversation towards closure. "Two things," he said simply, his voice resolute, but trembling a little. "You're gonna do two things. First, you're going to lay off the sauce. From _tomorrow_ you're on the wagon. No excuses, no denials, no secret stash of booze to get you through the day. I want you _clean_."

His words sent a cold chill through Trapper, but he nodded, his palms already sweating as he flexed his hands. But beneath the cold and the dread and the fear, there was something else – it was _hope_.

" _If_ ," Hawkeye added, "you're ready."

Trapper thought on it. He didn't have to think long. "I'm ready." It felt… surreal.

"I will _help_ , I will be _patient_ , I will _support_ you every step of the way, but I am _not_ spending the rest of my life with a violent drunk! I've seen that that does to people and there's no way…" Hawkeye floundered for words, then gave up, looking away.

Trapper nodded. "I get it."

Anxious, Hawkeye licked his lips. "Second… I've said this before but I really don't think you're listening, so I'm going to give you one last chance to get this through your skull: _get help_."

Blinking at him, Trapper felt his stomach lurch. "You mean… like the AA or somethin'?"

"No, I mean for _all of it_. Everything you've just told me. This is more than I can help you with. You need a professional. _Therapy_. Someone who understands, someone we can _trust_."

Trapper looked dubious. "Hawkeye, there ain't a whole lot o' therapists out there about to sit down with me an' help me deal with this. That ain't how they operate, an' you know it!"

"There'll be _someone_!" Hawkeye sounded a lot surer than he felt. "There _has_ to be. We'll… we'll get out there, we'll find somebody… somebody like us… make connections. We can't be the only gays in this city."

"You know somebody? From your misspent youth, maybe?"

"No…" Hawkeye frowned. "But, I mean, all those people in the papers getting arrested have to be out there _somewhere_ , right?"

"Right." Trapper gave a nod of acquiescence.

"So you can talk about all this instead of bottling your feelings up and drinking them! And who knows, maybe while we're at it I can put together a little lavender book of Boston and we can all get together and have a big party! Everybody wears lavender!" He laughed, a strangely genuine sense of light-heartedness overtaking him

Trapper gave a small snort of laughter, and, as Hawkeye rose to dispose of his tear-soaked tissues, "Does this… mean you're stayin'?"

Loitering in the corner, hovering beside the trash can, Hawkeye took a deep breath. "Yes, and no."

Trapper's heart sank, his face creasing. "What does _that_ mean?"

"You need somebody – somebody to look out for you – and I'm willing to do that. But I'm doing this as your friend, not your lover."

Sniffing, Trapper shook his head. "I don't understand. How can you just… turn those feelin's off an' carry on like–"

"Because I don't _have_ those feelings for you anymore, Trapper!" A lump rose in Hawkeye's throat as the words hammered the truth of it home. "And I think I'd do more harm than good if I tried to pretend I did. I care about you, and I want to help, but I _don't_ want to be with you right now."

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Trapper observed their passing with silent, respectful acceptance.

"So please," Hawkeye continued, unable to stand the quiet after the storm, "if you want to go and lock lips with a few more strange women in bars – or guys, if that's something you think might help – then go right ahead. Do what you have to do."

Trapper shook his head sadly, unable to fathom even the concept of being free to go and cavort with random strangers. He'd been faithful - well, except for tonight - for so long! The idea of being with anyone other than Hawkeye felt... empty. "I don't think that's the answer."

"Well, then be single for a while. Just understand this: as of tonight, we are _not_ together. I'm here to make sure you get the help you need – but I'm _not_ your boyfriend."

Trapper's face crumpled, and he looked away. He almost couldn't believe it! He'd confessed so much, put all his fears and troubles into words, and it hadn't changed a thing! And he realised, in that one awful moment, as Hawkeye severed their decade-long commitment with nought but a few words, that he desperately, painfully, longed to hang on to him.

But he didn't protest. He'd had his shot. He'd blown it. They were done.

His voice trembling, Trapper posed his next question carefully, realising he might get an answer he didn't like: "So… let's say I get cleaned up? If I get help? What happens then?"

Hawkeye shrugged, lost for words. The thought of a sober, calmer Trapper with none of his anger issues or resentment felt so alien now, so far off and unknown, that he couldn't fathom if he would want to be with that person or not. "I don't know. I really don't know. I'm not going to make a promise I can't keep. This is something you need to do for _you_ – not me."

The uncertainty was like a shot to the chest. Reeling, Trapper struggled to process the information. He'd never felt so alone! Part of him wanted to tell Hawkeye to just leave, to let him battle his demons alone without the ghost of their dead relationship looming over his recovery. And how could Hawkeye put himself through so much? He was exhausted, worn down by Trapper's steady decline, dragged down with him. How could he stand to even be around him? Cautiously, Trapper squinted painfully at him through red-rimmed eyes. "Are you sure you want to stick around for this? It's not gonna be pretty, an' between you an' me, I'm not so sure I'm worth it."

A thin, melancholy smile from Hawkeye. "Yeah, well… maybe I'm not either, but I once met a guy in Korea who helped me through the worst months of my life, who listened when I got scared and comforted me when I lost my oldest friend. He made it bearable, and now if he'd let me, I'd like to return the favour."

' _Return the favour._ ' It wasn't much, but Trapper had never felt so blessed. Cautiously, he reached out for him. Hawkeye hesitated for a moment, but, perhaps in spite of himself, he let Trapper take his hand, standing over him. It was… oddly platonic: an extended, unmoving handshake, each of them standing silently as they sealed both their break-up and their unity all in one simple gesture. It was the most intimate contact they'd shared in weeks. "I'm sorry, Hawk." The words were sobbed breathlessly against his fingers. "I never meant for any o' this to happen. I never meant to hurt ya."

"Ah, the best laid plans of mice and medics…" Hawkeye's quip was hiding a very genuine hurt, but he was tired, and his defences were up.

"I'll get help. I will." Trapper's voice cracked. His fingers tightened a little around Hawkeye's hand. "I love you…" The words were a mere whisper, but it felt good to utter them.

And Hawkeye stood, silent, letting Trapper cling to him for just a few more moments. The declaration was not something he needed to hear right now, but he sensed that Trapper just needed to let those feelings out into the world. It could be the last time those words ever passed between them…

"Sorry," Trapper murmured, his grip loosening, and he released Hawkeye's hand. "I probably shouldn't be sayin' stuff like that now."

Tensing, Hawkeye nodded, shifting awkwardly in the silence that followed. "You know I'm not going to say it back, right?"

Trapper knew. He nodded, sniffed, and dried his eyes. "I don't expect you to." The words caught in Trapper's throat. He wanted nothing more than to grasp Hawkeye's hand again, drop to his knees, and promise never to hurt him again, but he knew such promises were meaningless. This would be a long, hard fight. There was nobody who could do the work for him, and no promise of reconciliation at the end. Suddenly, the long climb facing him seemed almost insurmountable, and all the words he had uttered weighed heavily upon him, their implications too vast to consider. The emotions and the events of the day were quite overwhelming. He gazed forlornly at his hands, missing Hawkeye's touch, and a thought occurred to him. "You… uh, want your ring back? Seein' as we're split up an' all?" The words still didn't quite seem real. Trapper swallowed the lump in his throat.

Hawkeye's gaze fell to the band of gold encircling Trapper's finger, glinting far more brightly than when he had dug it out of the Cove thirty-five years previously. "No," he said at last. "You keep it. It can be a reminder that I've still got your back." A moment's thought, and then he added: "You follow through on this, and maybe – _maybe_ , if my feelings change somewhere along the way – we'll try again. But I can't promise you that."

Trapper nodded, his head down, staring at his hands as he fiddled nervously with the gold band. It wasn't a commitment. It wasn't an ultimatum. It was a temporary reprieve; a bit of breathing space for him to prove himself with a little more direction now than he'd had before, to move forward with a purpose and a goal, and with one heck of a fire under his butt.

Maybe it was a stupid idea. Maybe it was too much to ask of either one of them, but whatever scrap of feeling that remained compelled Hawkeye to at least give it a shot. He and Trapper had been amazing friends once, and, ex-partners or not, if they could make that work again, then maybe he could do some good here.

They sat in silence for a short time, exhausted in the light of everything that had happened that day, Hawkeye sick with nerves at the move he'd just made, Trapper with silent tears streaming down his face. There was nothing more to be said – just the unenviable task of unravelling the tangled web of neuroses Trapper had woven for himself. At last, Hawkeye let out a weary sigh, gazing out into the blackness of the night. "I really need some sack time."

"Me too," Trapper admitted. He glanced back towards the mattress upon which he was sitting. "I uh... don't suppose there's any extra blankets in this dive."

Hawkeye frowned, staring at the uninviting pair of beds – and the twelve inch gap between them. "Don't worry, I'll give you one of mine."

They dressed for bed in silence – Trapper in his pyjamas, Hawkeye in a t-shirt and shorts when he usually slept in his underwear at most – and rearranged the bedding to suit. At last, they both slid under the blankets, back to back, each staring at a stained wall of an unfamiliar room in a hostile city in a terrifying world. They lay in silence, Trapper trying and failing to choke back his tears, and Hawkeye gnawing silently on his thumb, a pillow clasped over his head, desperately trying to drown out Trapper's gentle sobbing.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, Trapper fell into a silent, peaceful slumber. Hawkeye risked turning to glance at him through the darkness, but, from where he lay, Trapper was little more than a hunched silhouette under a rumpled pile of blankets, rising and falling gently in the lineated neon that intruded through the blinds. Hawkeye was reminded for a moment of the nights when he'd watched him sleeping peacefully on his narrow army cot in Korea, in a setup not all that different to this. And yet, somehow, as they lay here in their matching three-foot beds, the inches of space between them had never seemed so vast.

* * *

 _ **Authors notes:** There will be a brief hiatus after this update while I complete and polish off the next instalment. Follow hawkeye_piercintyre on tumblr for updates, and feel free to PM me to shout encouragement!_


End file.
